


The Lost Prince

by artsiel



Series: The Lost Prince [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Community: deancasbigbang, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Minor Violence, Rapunzel Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-07 10:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12839067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsiel/pseuds/artsiel
Summary: For nineteen years, Castiel has stared out of the same tower window, looked out on the same blades of grass and trees, and yearned to understand why the light in the spiraling tower in the distance shone day in and day out. Finally, on the cusp of his twentieth birthday, he's given the chance to explore the world outside his walls.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been literally almost 2 years in the making but finally I'm ready to post this fic! Lots of hard work and time went into this so I hope that you like it!
> 
> Special Thanks to my first beta [Heidi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/r2metoo/pseuds/r2metoo)  
> and my pitch hit beta [Ris](http://cryingcryptids.tumblr.com)  
> who did a fantastic job in the last few weeks! 
> 
> The art was done by the amazingly talented [Gabi](http://kamicom.tumblr.com)  
> and can be found [here](http://kamicom.tumblr.com/post/167996077347/title-the-lost-prince-author-artsiel-artist)  
> Note:
> 
> There are number of language used and renamed/re-purposed as fantasy languages. In each instance it's described what that language is before the character speaks but for clarification -
> 
> Easeden (language) = Swedish'  
> Lowland = Italian  
> Enoch = Magic  
> Common = English
> 
> Most dialogue is in Common but translations are added at the end of each chapter where they apply.

There is a tower hidden in the middle of the Great Woods.

 

It winds and grows towards the sky, the stone exterior weather worn and covered in climbing ivy, sturdy for its age. At the top sits a roof cobbled with blue stone, faded from the sun, and just below it rests a window. On the sill, a boy sits overlooking the capital city of Shirley and the battlements of the king’s castle just peeking over the tree line. The view goes on for miles, ever unchanging despite the years the boy on the sill has dedicated to looking out at it. Always the same grass at the base of his tower, the same trees that grow denser and denser the farther they go from his home, the same high, ornate towers on the castle with their lights that always shine well into the night. 

 

The capital city sits like a beacon in the distance, almost like a siren’s call, tempting the boy to leave his home in the tower and venture out towards it and the rest of the world beyond the tower’s walls. He’s resisted the need so far, has spent years dutifully watching from the safety and security of his tower. Ignoring the ever growing feeling of longing in the back of his mind as he grows older to explore, now on the cusp of his twentieth year, to experience life outside the tower and it’s stone walls, to maybe one day leave-

 

“Castiel! Get away from there!”, the voice rings out through the small room accompanied by the sound of heavy wood slamming against the stone floor. Castiel is normally better at anticipating his brother’s arrival, knowing that his older sibling doesn’t approve of him sitting so out in the open, especially so close to the edge of the window, where even the slightest breeze could send the teen tumbling. The younger boy sighs, getting down from the ledge making his way further into the room as his brother circles and closes the window behind him, locking it. 

 

“I was only just looking, Michael. Where’s the harm in that?”, Castiel asks as always, folding his arms over his chest, allowing the long sleeves of his night shirt to tangle up. He does nothing to remedy it, just adorns a pouting expression that he knows his brother has seen countless times. He’s well acquainted to Michael’s over-protectiveness at this point, years of his brother’s countless rules and precautions ingrained in him. 

 

“It’s not the looking that I’m worried about,” Michael answers in his usual concerned tone, dark hair becoming rustled as he removes the hood from his head, walking around Castiel to place the satchel on the nearby table with a muted thud. He moves to take off his riding cloak, runs his hands through his hair as he goes, when he looks up and notices the look of displeasure his brother is sending him. It causes him to pause, and then to sigh, the noise sounding almost put out by his younger brother’s antics, before making his way over to Castiel. 

 

His brother stands only a few inches taller than Castiel, with the same dark hair and light eyes that Castiel has himself, but where the younger tends to stay silent in his stubbornness to get his way, Michael uses the few inches difference in their heights to his advantage often. The older male has always been a firm statute of authority in their household, always setting rules and boundaries for Castiel to follow even in their younger days, though not without his reasons. It’s only the two of them, always has been for as long as the younger brunet could remember, and Castiel knows his brother takes looking after him as his highest responsibility. He has all rights to this deposition if Castiel were being honest. Michael always taking the role of role of protector and provider to the point of becoming overbearing and even stubborn.  He just wishes Michael would stop treating him like a child, especially as his birthday fast approaches. 

 

Michael tousles his brother’s hair, which never fails to annoy the younger boy, then places his hands to grip Castiel’s shoulders before speaking again.

 

“I’m sorry. You know why I act this way, how worried I always am for you. The outside is -”

 

“Dangerous. Yes, I know,” Castiel’s says it in a bored, practiced tone, turning his head to look away from Michael. It’s a speech that’s he’s heard more times than he cares to count. Michael reminds him near daily of the dangers of leaving their home in the tower, of the wild, vast forest surrounding them and of the people living in the cities and villages just outside, just beyond the trees and how hateful they can prove to be to things they don’t understand. He takes Castiel’s response as he usually does, with a smile and dismissal, squeezing his younger brother’s shoulders before returning to the table and beginning to unpack what he’s brought from his latest venture outside the tower himself.

 

Despite the familiar words, Castiel couldn’t find the same acceptance he’d usually feel. In truth, lately Castiel has found himself growing more and more tired and doubtful of Michael’s rhetoric of the wickedness inherent to the world. When he was younger, the world seemed just as scary as his brother had made it out to be. A place full of unfamiliar people and places and things that would undoubtedly only look upon him with fear and disdain, and would act as violent and as hateful as those emotions would dictate. But now, as he approaches his twentieth year and with almost as many years spent within the same small cobbled walls, Castiel can’t say he carries those fears as heavily as he had in the past, at least not so heavy that he wouldn’t try to convince his brother to at least bring him with him the next time he leaves for the nearest village. 

 

Michael is saying something about the quality of the parchment he’d found, but Castiel isn’t paying much attention to what’s being said as he moves to stand next to his brother, speaking before the courage he’d found suddenly escapes him.

 

_ “Broder,  _ I’ve been thinking that perhaps I could join you on your next trip.” 

 

Michael’s hands pause within the bag at Castiel’s words, but the younger doesn’t stop, “I know what you’ll say, but I’ve been working on my control like you always told me, and I’ve gotten so much better!” He moves to roll up his sleeves and free his hand as to show how far he’s come since last he and Michael had practiced.

 

“Castiel, we’ve talk about-”

 

“Really I have! Let me just show-” 

 

“Castiel, enough!!”

 

Before he can even utter a single syllable of Enoch, Michael has Castiel’s wrists are held tight in his grasp. The bones in his arm grind against each other and Castiel can already feel the slight raise of skin telling of a bruise underneath the pain of the hold. The move had been sudden and unexpected, Michael never before exhibiting this type of aggressive behavior. It clashed so much with his normal collected demeanor it was scary, the fear of it shown in Castiel shocked and frightened expression as his stands frozen in front of his brother and reflected in Michael’s own startled face. 

 

There is a tense moment that follows, just the two staring back at one another, afraid to make a move. Outside of the sound of their stinted breathing and the dust that moves throughout the air in the room, not a sound is uttered nor a muscle moved.

 

Finally, the tension breaks. 

 

The hold Michael had on his brother loosens and then with a few softly muttered words in Enoch, the pain and bruising that had started on Castiel’s wrists was gone as quick as it’d come. He lets their hands fall until his are cupped around Castiel’s own and hanging between them. His eyes meet his brother’s then, blue to muted green, and he takes a moment to collect himself before he speaks, his voice as soft as he can manage.

 

“You know why we live out in this tower, why you can’t leave. We’re not like the rest of the people of Easeden or of the Valley or anywhere else. This power we have,” he looks down at their hands  for a brief moment before regaining eye contact, “is a curse. It’s too much for you to control on your own, and were someone to see…they’d take you from me, and Castiel...I can’t...”

 

Castiel only nods, expression solemn and defeated. Michael considers him for a moment, seems as though he’s about to say something else but reconsiders and remains silent. He presses a kiss to the top of his brother’s head. 

 

“Don’t ask again...please.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They continue the day in near silence. Michael returns to the supplies he bought, moving about the room, tidying up and organizing the few tables and shelves within. Castiel returns to his bed against the far wall, a book of myths and tales in hand. He flips through the pages slowly as Michael tidies up around the room. His older brother turns to look at him every now and then, as if he’s about to say something, but Castiel doesn’t look up from his book.

 

The window is opened again to let in more light, but Castiel doesn’t dare go near it

A few hours pass before Michael breaks the silence. He’s pulling on his riding cloak yet again, checking his waist for his coin purse when he mentions heading to the village of Alona in hopes of finding something for them to celebrate Castiel’s birthday with. He remembers it being a few days travel on foot, so Castiel expects for his brother to return at the latest early on his birthday in four days time. Michael tells him as much.

 

“I’ll be gone for three or four days at most, okay Castiel?” Michael makes his way over to the wooden door in the floor, unlatches the lock, and begins to make his way down the stairs below.

 

Just as Michael begins to close the door, he hears Castiel call out, “Be safe.” He returns the sentiment, a smile in his voice, before the door closes, the lock clicks and he’s gone.

 

Castiel stays in bed with his book well after Michael is gone, lost in his own thoughts more than he is reading the words on the page as their talk of adventure in far off lands does little to distract him from his current state of mind. 

 

He’s not sure how much time he’d spent lost in his own head when a clanking sound from just outside his window draws Castiel’s attention. Cautiously, he stands from the bed to try and investigate the origin of the unfamiliar sound when a person is suddenly and loudly crashing through his window. Castiel ducks behind the other side of the bed, hidden from sight, book clenched white knuckled to his chest. 

 

Holding his breath and staying as still and as quiet as he can, Castiel listens to in an attempt to figure out where the intruder is, trying desperately to keep all his brother’s stories about dangerous, violent men and the panic that accompanies them at bay.

 

He hears the sound of fabric brushing against itself, then the shuffle of leather boots against the floor alongside the chink of metals hitting one another. Whoever it is is moving deeper into the room, towards the bed and Castiel, and has a metal...something with them. 

 

A chain? Perhaps.

 

Something more common, like a knife? Possibly.

 

Or maybe it’s both!

 

Maybe the unknown figure is armed to the teeth with weapons Castiel can’t even think to name, all with the purpose of stealing him away from his tower and from his brother, to never see them again. The fear of it seizes Castiel so suddenly, catching his already labored breath in his throat, that he acts in a moment of panicked impulse and throws the heavy book in his hand in a hope that it hits his target, quickly returning to his hiding place.

 

There’s a short and sudden shout, followed by a thud and then silence. 

 

When Castiel finally works up the courage to turn and peek over the edge of the bed, he’s met with the sight of a boy with fair hair and dark clothing who looks to be about Castiel’s age lying motionless, book perched against the side of his face that isn’t pressed into the stone floor, in front of his window. 

 

And all Castiel can think about in this moment is how right Michael was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Broder - Brother


	2. Chapter 2

Winchester Valley is one of the lowest points in all of Easeden, surrounded on each side by rocky mountain ranges and cut almost perfectly down the centre by the Lawrence River. Most people only refer to the small villages that make up the area as the Valley, but the people of Winchester have a deep seated pride for the land and the culture that has grown and flourished along the edge of Easeden’s southern border. As rural and quaint Winchester may seem, it has had its fair share of excitement throughout its history. 

Perhaps the most famous things to come from the Valley were brothers Samuel and Dean, notorious thieves known only as The Hunters throughout the kingdom. Tales of their daring exploits, from stealing enchanted items and jewels from high nobles to narrowly escaping the men of the King’s Guard, the two are Winchester’s most infamous exports, continuing to outwit and evade the law, existing only in the shadows of Easeden’s darkest corners. 

“Can you believe it, Sammy!? The Dagger of Cortese!”, Dean exclaims, flipping and twisting the enchanted knife in his hand as he maneuvers the reins he holds to move himself closer to his brother, “Do you realise how much we can get for this thing?!”

The younger Winchester seems less than impressed with his brother’s knife handling. 

“Yeah, Dean, I know. Considering I was the one who researched the hunt, I think I’m more than a little familiar with it,” Sam speaks with the same bored, flat tone he always uses in the face of his older brother’s post hunt excitement. Dean never failed to act after every successful theft as though whatever new item they now had in their possession was the end of their career as professional criminals, now being no exception. Sam had learned to ignore it, for the most part.

He had to admit, though, some of Dean’s excitement was well founded. The Dagger of Cortese was a legendary weapon, said to be able to stop even the strongest of magic wielders and fabled to even have the power to kill demons, and would fetch quite a few pieces of gold from any buyer if they could prove its authenticity. Still, something about it doesn’t still well with Sam.

“Don’t you think this all has been a little too easy? We just stole from one of the most powerful noblemen in the entire kingdom, and it’s almost been an entire day with not even a single knight coming after us.” Sam reaches to move a lock of hair from its place matted to his forehead in frustration and to try and find some relief from the heat, however brief. The summers in northern Easeden couldn’t compete with the humid heat back in Winchester, but their intensity was still something Sam could never quite get used to.

Dean is quick to dismiss Sam’s worries, “Forget about that, Sam. All it means is that those idiots have finally figured out that they can’t possibly catch us. ‘Specially not when we’ve got such an amazing horsepower on our side, right Chev?”, Dean says as he slips the dagger into the hilt on belt. The black steed beneath him neighs at that, content. Sam and his own horse, Fjord, share a look, unamused and unimpressed, but otherwise stay silent.

They continue to ride north toward the capital, Dean filling most of the journey with recounts of their greatest adventures and jokes or stories he’d heard from their last stop at a tavern with small laughs or comment from Sam, until the nagging feeling the back of Sam’s mind forces him to speak up again.

“Really, Dean, I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Relax, Sam, nothing’s gonna happen.”

Just as the words leave his mouth, the Winchesters are met with the sound of approaching riders, nearing ten it seems from the volume and closeness, and a booming call of “Halt!” in the distance.

“Dean-”

“Don’t say it!,” Dean calls out as he snaps his reins to drive Chev forward, Sam doing the same. 

They give chase for as long as they can manage, Sam following the lead Dean sets as fast as his horse can carry. It seems as though they’re gaining a lead on the guardsmen, like perhaps they’ve made another clean get away, when the sound of horse hooves can be heard getting closer again, this time coming from ahead of them.

Dean curses under his breath, before signaling to Sam for them to split up, and breaks to the right towards the dense tree line. He pushes Chev to go as fast as she’s ever gone, ducking under low hanging branches, avoiding roots and arrows as they come.

Finally, after what feels like hours of circling and dodging, that’s undoubtedly got him lost, Dean sees a sign of relief ahead. 

In the distance he sees what seems like a clearing with what looks to be some sort of stone structure, or a patch of forest where the trees are less together and a formation of rock at the very least. Either way, it seems like the best place to try and collect himself in order to figure out a way to meet back up with Sam when he finally loses the guard, despite how open it would make him to the view of the knights in pursuit.

When he and Chev break through the tree line, Dean finds that his first guess was correct. At the centre of the clearing is a stone tower, standing maybe thirty feet and looking many decades older than Dean and Sam’s ages combined. It doesn’t seem as though it’s in use, considering the secluded location and the thick layer of ivy that circles around it, but Dean still approaches with caution, even as he slows Chev and makes his way closer. From the ground he can just make out a window of what seems to be surprisingly unsplintered wood with two panels half opened from the middle. It might possibly be worth going up to see what he finds, Dean thinks as he and Chev stop in front of one side of the tower.

It’s silent there, eerily so, no sound of the guards that were on his tail at all. The only thing Dean can think to compare it to is like suddenly dunking your head underwater, that weird way every sound around you suddenly becomes muted. It makes the Winchester feel uneasy, but he figures if he can’t hear his pursuers then they can’t hear him either. 

Deciding that he’s safe as he’s going to get, Dean dismounts his horse and walks towards the structure. After giving the tower a once over, and then a second look just to double check, Dean finds that there’s no door anyway, at least not one he can see, other than scaling the wall itself. A heavy sigh leaves the thief’s lips then, annoyed at what he has to do in order to get inside. Dean curses the king’s guard and his own dumb luck that always seems to land him in these kinds of situations as he walks back towards Chev and retrieves one of the iron picks they usually use for climbing from her saddlebag.

It takes him a moment to get a good grip with the pick, the stone proving to be stronger than Dean had originally thought, and then another long moment before he finds secure enough hand and footholds for him to begin his ascent. Chev makes a sound that’s almost a whinny, and Dean pauses to glare back at her.

“Not a word…”

Dean waits till her attention is on a tuft of grass that she begins to graze before he starts to climb again.

He continues on, outside of a few minor fumbles with less than sturdy holds in the chipping stone, with relative ease. From the heat, Dean can guess that it’s maybe been an hour or two since he’s started, making it just around noon or early afternoon when the window sill is finally within arm’s reach. The sun’s position is a more reliable tell of how long he’d been climbing, but the Winchester refuses to look at anything but the wall in front of him at this height.

Dean makes the final reach towards the window’s sill and pulls himself over the ledge and into the room on the other side, letting out throaty groan from his effort. He stands and takes a look about the room, brushing off his trousers and stowing the pick on his belt as he moves away from the window.

There’s not much to look at within the small room.

There’s a table just off to the side of the window, a small case overflowing with books with an unkempt bed facing against the opposite wall and adjacent to the window. 

The whole room seems lived in, going against what Dean had previously thought, though he doesn’t get to spend too much time pondering that fact, because just as he’s turning further investigate the room pain blossoms on the side of his head and the world goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Dean feels as he wakes a nearly blinding headache radiating from his temple and across to the rest of his head. The next is the stiff, soreness in his neck that comes from keeping his head in the same position for long periods of time. Not an unfamiliar feeling in his line of work but not something completely welcome. He’s not laid out on the floor, something that usually accompanies a head injury like this. Instead, Dean finds himself sat up in a chair, head slumped and arms heavy but otherwise unrestrained on rests at his sides.

 

Dean’s vision swims as he tries to piece together what happened, but the sound of movement across from him draws his attention before he sorts through his scrambled thoughts. 

 

His head shoots up at the sound, despite the bolt of pain it causes. Dean is met with the sight of a boy stood barefoot a good distance away from him despite the size of the room, fidgeting with the sleeves of an overshirt that much longer than he usually expects on a male. His features are striking when Dean’s eyes finally leave the boy’s attire and reach his face. Pale, unblemished skin and a harsh jawline contrast against dark lashes and the matching head of nearly black unkempt hair frame the unsure face staring back at the Winchester. What really draws the hunter’s attention are his eyes, that despite the unease clear in them almost shine with how blue they are, reminding him of the river that used to run through his home when he was younger.

 

In any other situation, Dean would feel inclined to try and woo the attractive stranger, offer his best smile and maybe offer a line about the funny way fate had brought them together, but seeing that he’s already been injured, presumably by the unassuming boy in front of him, Dean wagers a guess that it wouldn’t get him anyway.

 

There’s another awkward moment of staring and silence between them before the boy gives a start, like he’d realised he’d forgotten something and suddenly recalled it, and starts to talk.

 

“ _ Du är vaken! Är du skadad? Ledsen för att slå dig, skrämde du mig …  _ ”, it’s said in rapid and frantic Easeden, a language native to the kingdom but hardly ever used in the Valley, and Dean only catches a word or two.

 

“ _ Aspetta! Non posso- _ I can’t understand you,” Dean starts in Lowland out of habit but quickly switches to Common hoping that maybe he’ll understand and that maybe they can meet somewhere in the middle and make progress towards clearing up this misunderstanding. The boy just gives him a curious look, tilting his head with a mildly confused look on his face, and as cute as Dean finds it, it doesn’t do much to resolve the situation they find themselves in. 

 

Seeing that talking doesn’t seem to be making things better or worse, Dean decides that his best option would be to just find a way back down from the tower and forget about the boy and the tower altogether, and starts to make his way out of the chair, the wooden frame supporting most of his weight as his head is still a bit out of it.

 

“Listen, I’m not even sure you know what I’m saying”, Dean tries to sound as nonthreatening as he can as he backs up towards the window and away from the room’s other occupant, “but if you could just show me the way out of here, I’ll be out of your hair, okay?”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to have your things back before you leave?’

 

Dean pauses, taken aback a moment by the bold statement, and then realises the boy’s right. Between the pain in his head and avoiding startling the other, Dean hadn’t realised he’d been stripped of his belt, meaning he was without any weapons, including-

 

“You didn’t think I’d let the strange man who’d broken into my home keep his knife, did you?”

 

His tone is flat, almost like he’s bored with the whole with thing, and suddenly the boy becomes a lot less cute than Dean had first thought. 

 

He tries to give a subtle look around the room, seeing if he can spot where his belt might be hidden, but stopped when the boy speaks again.

 

“You won’t find it.”

“Look, kid-”, Dean growls.

 

“Castiel.”

 

“Whatever. That stuff you took? It’s valuable, okay? So, if you’d just give it back, I’ll be on my way.”

 

Castiel considers the stranger, using the momentary bout of boldness that’s overtaken him to overshadow the fear in the back of his mind. 

 

He’s tall, taller than Castiel or his brother, now that Castiel sees him standing. His hair is light and shorn shorter than Castiel has ever seen on anyone, and there are freckles covering his cheeks and any other patch of visible skin on his body, which is fitting as his complexion is one that’s to be expected from someone who spends his time in the sun. His eyes are green like Michael’s, only a shade or two brighter, but not unkind, despite the circumstances they find themselves in.

 

Under the now loose tunic he wears Castiel knows there’s a thick layer of muscle. He had noticed it when he’d moved the man and taken his weapons, but he doesn’t seem as much of a threat anymore. Maybe it was foolish to think so, but he considers the fact that the stranger could have already overpowered Castiel and taken what he’d wanted already, hit to the head or not, and hadn’t.  

 

Castiel turns then, going to retrieve the stranger’s possessions from their place hidden amongst the mess of books on the other side of the room, hearing an exasperated “Really?” from the man behind him. He approaches him slowly, arm outstretched with belt clasped in hand waiting for the other to take it. Dean does, quickly securing it at his hips, making sure what was secured along the leather is still there, mostly importantly the dagger.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

Dean gives Castiel a suspicious look from the corner of his eye, before answering.

 

“Dean.”

 

“Of…?”

 

“Winchester,” his tone is curt, growing tired of the way Castiel seems to be switching between emboldened and nearly childish curiosity.

 

“Well, Dean of Winchester, the door it just over there…”

 

He gestures to a inlayed wooden hatch in the floor, and Dean is quick to follow it and take his leave of this whole mess. He unlatches the lock and throws back the door, moving as quickly as he can down the worn steps he finds on the other side, when Castiel’s voice stops him.

 

“But, you won’t make it far.”

 

There’s a groan and the sound of boots stomping on stone, then the top of Dean’s head peeks over the edge of the opening, brow heavy to match the unimpressed tone to his voice.

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“Nothing, just that the wood is quite dense. Nearly impossible to navigate,”Castiel says it without much interest, crossing his hands behind his back and looking at Dean like a child about to play a trick,“Not without a guide that is.”

 

“And I’m assuming that guide is you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

It’s a lie. Castiel knows that, knows that the only place he can even attempt to navigate to is Alona, and even then all he a has to go on is the direction he’s seen Michael head from his window. Still, Castiel knows an opportunity when it’s presented to him, and this is his chance to finally leave the tower. Dean takes a moment to assess his claim.

 

“And what is it you’d want in return?”

 

Castiel brightens at this and quickly says, “An escort to the capital.” Estimating the distance of the castle from the tower, Castiel makes a guess that he can make it to Shirley and back before his brother is any the wiser.

 

Dean considers his words before heaving a great sigh, knocking his forehead against the wood frame in front of him in defeat. He and Sam already have most of their belongings stashed away in an inn just outside the city anyway, so taking Castiel with him isn’t much of hassle.

 

“Fine, but gather whatever you need quick, alright? My brother’s waiting for me.”

 

A smile breaks across Castiel’s face, more gums than teeth but just as charming when Dean sees it. He moves in a flurry about the room, grabbing the extra rucksack from the corner of the room and throwing in a bundle of old parchment and few writing sticks, an extra tunic and set of trousers, along with grabbing Michael’s spare cloak from the peg near the door.

 

Dean watches in mild amusement, chuckling at the unintentional flourish the other boy gives to securing the cloak around his neck and throwing the strap of the sack across his chest.

 

“You wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, would you?”

 

“Unlikely,” the answer is short and absolute, and it sounds so odd coming from the equally as odd boy that Dean can’t help the hearty laugh that escapes him. 

 

“Well, then Castiel, lead the way.” 

 

Dean steps aside on the stairs to give Castiel room to walk, arms stretched across his body in presentation, shooting him one of his signature roguish Winchester smiles.

 

Castiel moves past him and begins his first decent down the stairs leading out of the tower, hoping that Dean doesn’t notice the odd way his cheeks heat in response to the look he sends him.

 

His smirk says he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Du är vaken! Är du skadad? Ledsen för att slå dig, skrämde du mig … - You're awake! Are you hurt? Sorry for hitting you, you frightened me...
> 
> Aspetta! Non posso- - Wait! I can't-


	4. Chapter 4

The weight of he’s doing doesn’t hit Castiel until the last of the tower disappears in the distance behind them.

 

He’d left the tower itself without a problem, walked on grass for the first time with nothing more than a curious look down at the unfamiliar feeling. Even meeting Chev, the giant black mare Dean had proudly called his own, was shockingly uneventful. Outside chewing on a lock of his hair briefly, which Castiel found funny more than anything, Chev was friendly and welcomed her rider’s companion with ease.

 

It’s only after they’ve travelled some time and Castiel looks back from his place astride Chev and can no longer make out the blue cobbled panels that make up his roof that he realises how foolish he’s being.

 

Sneaking out of the tower with the first boy he meets? How reckless can Castiel get, especially considering the fact that the boy had broken in to begin with. He should just go back right now, send Dean in the direction of the nearest village and forget about the whole thing. He doesn’t know what he was thinking trying the go against his brother’s orders, when all Michael had ever done was whatever he could to keep Castiel safe. Gods, when Michael finds out what he’s done-

 

“Hey, hey! Woah,” Dean’s voice draws him from his panicked thoughts, “I’m all for getting rough, but let’s get to know each other a bit more first?”

 

It’s then that Castiel notices the tight grip he has on Dean’s waist in front of him, hands twisted in the fabric of the other’s tunic and aching from the effort of it, and the Winchester’s own hold on his wrists as Dean tries and to loosen it. He lets go suddenly, quickly readjusting his grip on Dean’s waist, more relaxed this time, as not to fall or slip from his place on the saddle. Castiel tries to control his breathing, quickened both from the panic that now sits in his chest and the embarrassment of being caught.

 

“Don’t get out much, huh?”, Dean asks with genuine concern in his voice, turning his head slightly look back at Castiel. All he gets is the sight the top of his head.

 

“You could say that, yes.”

 

It’s all the answer Castiel chooses to give, deciding that keeping his inner turmoil to himself.

 

Dean accepts it, humming in assertion as he guides Chev around a root that extends to far out into their path.

 

“Don’t worry Cas, once we get out of the forest, it’ll be smooth sail-”

 

Dean cuts himself off suddenly, slowing Chev to a stop. It confuses Castiel enough for him to move to get a look around Dean and try and make out what’s made him do such a thing.

 

From over Dean’s shoulder, Castiel can just make out what seems to a small group of men just a few hundred yards in front of them. They seem official, each dressed in varying levels of leather armor, but all wearing the deep blue and bronze of the King’s Crest. The men are armed and horsed as well, Castiel noticing the swords at their hips and the quiver and bow some of them carry, but they don’t seem to have noticed the two of them yet.

 

“ _Figlio di puttana_ …”

 

He’s not sure what Dean had said, but from the tone itself Castiel knows it’s nothing good.

 

“What?”

 

“There’s a blockade,” Dean mutters it through his teeth, reaching for the dagger at side and removing it, shealth and all, shoving it into one of Chev’s saddlebags and then goes to rummage near frantically in the other, searching for something and mutter in angry Lowland as he does.

 

“So, what’s the problem?”, Castiel asks, not understanding what Dean is trying tell him.

 

“The problem is a blockade means the King’s Guard, and the King’s Guard,” Dean responds without looking up from his search. When Castiel doesn’t say anything, Dean adds, “You could say that the Guard and I aren’t on a friendly basis. In fact, they hate me.”

 

Castiel sits in incredulous silence for a moment before responding with hushed, “What!?”, which goes unnoticed as Dean gives his own exclamation of victory as he finally pulls whatever he was looking for from the bag and tucks it into the breast of his tunic.

 

“Don’t worry about that, just keep quiet and make sure your face is hidden, and we’ll be fine.”

 

Dean moves to pull at the collar of his undershirt, untucking a hood that was hidden there and putting it on as he get’s Chev to start forward again. Castiel does the same with his own, pulling it down tight and close to his face, and wrapping his arms tight around Dean’s waist as they reach within earshot of the guardsmen.

 

Castiel hold his breath as one of the men call for them to stop.

 

“Good day sirs!” Dean calls back, voice light and clear as one of the men approaches them.

 

“Good day. Kindly state your business and present your identification.”

 

He can’t make out much from under the shadow of his cloak other than the shine of the soldier’s boot and gleam of the hilt of his sword in the sun, but the booming quality to his voice is enough to frighten Castiel without ever seeing his face.

 

It doesn’t seem to have the same effect on Dean, as Castiel feels him reach back into his tunic to retrieve the papers he had hidden there moments before and then hand them to the man. As he’s looking them over, Dean begins to speak again just as friendly as before.

 

“We were just talking a ride through the wood and got a bit turned about. Must have found our way if we’ve run into you men, right?”

 

The soldier gives a short hum in response, returning the papers to Dean, before turning his attention to Castiel. He seems to give him a once over, focusing on his bare feet and the edge of his shirt that sticks out from the front hem of his cloak. The scrutiny is enough to make Castiel uncomfortable and move closer to Dean, knee knocking against the corner of one of the saddlebags.

 

“And what of the lady?”

 

“Hadn’t thought to bring any papers with her,” Dean answers without a missing a beat, using the guard’s mistake to their advantage, “Forgetful aren’t you, love?” He puts his hand on of one Castiel’s hands that rests on his waist.

 

It takes a second but Castiel realises this is his cue to talk, and squeaks out a small,”Yes!”, in what he hopes to be a convincing enough voice for a girl. Dean gives a off a laugh like an amused lover and brushes thumb against Castiel’s knuckles. It does wonders to calm the boy’s racing heart, and seems to be enough to fool the guards.

 

“Very well, be on your way”

 

Just then the guard halts in his retreat. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, attention focused somewhere near Castiel’s leg. When he looks down to investigate, Castiel sees the ornate handle of Dean’s dagger just barely sticking out of the saddlebag.

 

Dean notices it as well, telling Castiel to hold on as the guardsmen draw their swords and ready their bows. Suddenly, Dean pulls back hard on the reins, making Chev rear back and causing the men to scramble out of the way to avoid being trampled as her hooves meet dirt again and they race off.

 

The trees around them become just a blur of green and brown with how fast they’re going, the sounds of the forest muted down to just the sound of hooves and the calls of the King’s Guard behind them. Dean maneuvers Chev singlehandedly, the other reaching back to keep a hold on Castiel as the boy struggles to maintain his own hold on Dean. He tries to think quickly as to what the best course of action would be to get them safely away from the Guard. Getting off the worn path and changing direction is usually the best way to get rid of any pursuers, but he’d rather not stray from Castiel’s directions and get hopelessly lost for the second time that day.

 

He hears Castiel let out a shout just as an arrow zips by, nicking his cheek as it goes. Dean calls back for Castiel to get down, pushing him to stay that way with the arm that had been holding him, when another two arrows fly by.

 

One goes wide, missing them by feet, but the other hits it’s mark and lodges itself into the shoulder of the arm holding Castiel. Dean’s lucky enough that the tip and a fair amount of the  shaft passed to the other side of his shoulder, making it easy for him to quickly reach back and snap off the fletching at the end with his other hand before going across and pulling the shaft from his body. He lets out a grunt as he finally gets the rest of the arrow out, taking Chev’s reins back in his hand as quickly as he’d let them go, but otherwise does his best to try and ignore the pain the injury causes, if not for his companion’s sake then for the sake of getting both of them as far from here as possible.

 

From his place bent down at Dean’s side, Castiel feels something wet and warm hit his face. Feeling the other’s hold on him suddenly lax and looking up to see the sleeve of Dean’s undershirt growing darker and darker in color, starting at one point in his shoulder, Castiel realises that it’s blood, Dean’s blood. They’re running away from a group of trained and well armed soldiers, Dean is hurt and Castiel is just sitting there useless.

 

He turns to see how close the men are to them, and finding them much closer than he thought, Castiel focuses himself.

 

He closes his eyes and tries to calm himself enough to draw forth any measure of his power to help them, going deeper and deeper into his own mind until he can barely notices what’s around him.

 

Instead, he gets an image of the forest around them, only rather than picturing the leaves or branches near them or the rocks and roots on the forest floor beneath them, Castiel sees an outline of their general location in varying hues of colors, sensing their energy more than anything else. In this state he can see Dean and Chev, and the guards as well, each of them a body of distinct light. He reaches out towards the branches, imagining himself bending one of them back, and is surprised to feel it move to his will. It’s the first time Castiel has actively tried to use his powers without a written spell or Michael to supervise and keep things under control, and the reach and control he inherently has shocks him.

 

Determined, Castiel opens his eyes again, still feeling the pull of the forest around him, and calls for the branches to move and grow into the space behind them, cutting off the guards pursuit and redirecting them away from the pair. Almost instantaneously the trees and bushes begin to shake and move, branches curving down and intertwining, leaves and vines growing thicker and fuller till there’s nothing but a wall of greenery behind them.

 

The sound of the guards behind them lessen and lessen until finally it sounds as if it’s going away rather than towards the two.

 

Relieved, Castiel reaches out again, asking the forest to lead them somewhere quiet and safe from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Figlio di puttana… - Son of a bitch...


	5. Chapter 5

Neither of them notice just how bad the wound in Dean’s shoulder is till they’ve found somewhere to bed down for the night, the adrenaline from a second chase within the same day doing well to keep the pain from fully hitting him.They find an open rock face just outside the forest’s edge. It’s mostly disguised from one side, appearing to be just a formation of rock to any passerby, and it’s out of the way enough that Dean feels comfortable enough to stop there. Though it’s not like he can do much other than bring Chev around to the open side and slump down from her back. 

 

They’ve lost hours of travel and daylight, the last bits of light turning the amber over the treeline. Castiel can see in the low light how clammy and pale Dean has gotten, sweat matting his hair and chest heaving with labored breath. His left sleeve is almost completely soaked with blood, some of it dripping and pooling in his palm as his arm hangs limply at his side. Dean tries to play off the pain and severity of the injury, telling Castiel that he’s fine even as he struggles one handedly to secure and tend to Chev.

 

“Let me see it,” Castiel says finally, giving up the pretense that he isn’t as worried as he is. There’s a guilt there as well, as he can’t help feeling as if this was all his doing. If Castiel had just stayed in the tower, or even had directed them another way then they wouldn’t be here possibly watching Dean bleed out.

 

“No, Cas, I said it was fine,” Dean’s voice is weak and clouded by pain, barely audible from his place slumped against the rock wall. Castiel ignores his, moving to crouch beside him and begins undoing the ties that hold his undershirt and tunic together. He’s been bleeding for hours at this point, growing weaker and weaker as time passes. 

 

“You’re stubborn aren’t you?” Dean says without bite, allowing Castiel to pull down his shirt collar and expose his shoulder. 

 

The wound is bigger than he’s thought it be, the skin around the hole looking red and angry as blood slowly pours out if it. Castiel steels himself at the sight, unused to seeing anything as violent as the torn skin and muscle in front of him. As a child Michael had taught him how to heal minor injuries, just small cuts and scrapes and bruises Castiel might get from playing in the tower when his brother wasn’t there to help him, but it was nothing as great as what he was seeing now. 

 

He glances at Dean then, seeing his tilted back and resting against the wall, eyes closed and breath heavy. 

 

Still he could try.

 

“Don’t move okay, I haven’t tried this before,” Castiel says quietly placing his hands over Dean’s wound. He closes his eyes and focuses, silently saying the Enochian words for healing.

 

“Tried what?”

 

The only answer Dean gets is silence, before heat begins to radiate from his shoulder. Startled, Dean opens his eyes and turns to look at Castiel, the sight he’s met with shocking him even more. 

 

There’s a bluish white light coming from where the boy’s hands rest on his shoulder, so blinding that Dean has to look away from the spot every few seconds to spare his eyesight. He catches a glance at Castiel’s face and sees the same light shining from under his eyelids, giving his otherwise calm expression a fierceness. Stranger still is the feeling in his shoulder and arm. Along with the heat, Dean thinks he can feel the damage there repairing itself. The only thing he can liken it to is having his body weaving itself together, and it would probably be more unpleasant were Dean not in such a state of shock and confusion. 

 

He’s seen magic before, has had it used on himself by Sam for the same purpose, but never like this. Usually there’s a spell, with words in an old, long dead language and strange combinations of ingredients that made Dean sick to his stomach before they did anything to heal him. What Cas is doing is nothing like that. It’s quicker than any spell Sam has ever used, and many times stronger. Dean can even see the blood that was covering most of his chest and arm begin to disappear.

 

He wasn’t sure if he should he impressed or apprehensive of Cas and his newly discovered gift.

 

There’s a moment more of silence as the wound finally seals closed. Castiel lets out a sigh and opens his eyes as he removes his hands and sits back, moving away from Dean. The other flexes his hand and move his shoulder, checking to see if he can, expression unreadable. He looks at Castiel as he moves to redo the ties on his clothing, the boy meeting his eye before looking away. He seems embarrassed or like he’s bracing himself for something, and Dean takes note of it as he thinks of what to say next. 

 

He’s expecting Dean to be angry or scared of him, for him to yell and curse, and to leave Castiel lost and miles from home, or worse hurt him like Michael had always told him would happen were anyone to see him use his powers.

 

Instead Dean just stares, tucking away the last knot on collar before simply saying, “So, you can use magic too?”

 

The nonchalant way he says it takes him back, shocking Castiel into responding with a lame, “What?”

 

“My younger brother, Sam, used to study spellwork when we were kids. He’s gotten pretty good over the years,” Dean answers as he stands and starts stretching his arms above his head,”Nowhere as good as you, though. Must be real useful.”

 

“I don’t know,” Cas says, looking up at Dean, still reeling,”I never use it.” He pauses then, remembering why exactly that is.

 

The Winchester stops mid stretch, looking at the other incredulously, “You’re joking, really?”

 

Castiel continues to look down at the dirt, rolling a pebble between his fingers. 

“I can’t control it very well, and that makes it dangerous,” Castiel begins to say, repeating what Michael had always told him,”It’s a curse. I’m cursed.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

For the second time that night Dean shocks Castiel out of his self pity.

 

“Look at what you can do, Cas,” he says lifting he previously injured arm,”You saved my life! How can being that powerful be a bad thing when you can do so much good with it? It’s a gift.”

 

“Y-yeah,” Cas stutters, clearing his throat as he feels the tips of his ears turn red. It’s the first time someone’s ever said anything positive about his powers, the first time anyone has seen them as anything but bad. He’s not sure how else to respond other than a small “thank you” and a smile.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, looking up at the sky, a little flustered himself, “It’s getting dark, so I better get a fire started.”

 

“Okay,” Castiel says, smile still clear on his face.

 

Dean returns it as he walks past Castiel, hand brushing through his hair as he goes, and Castiel thinks this must be what it’s like to make a friend.


	6. Chapter 6

It took another half day’s travel to exit the wood while avoiding paths on which the guard were surely searching and travelling by, and even with their early start, the two don’t arrive at the inn where the Winchesters are staying late the next afternoon. 

 

Dean leaves Chev at the joined stable to enjoy some much need rest, removing her saddlebags and leading Castiel inside.

 

The inside of the inn, much like the outside, wasn’t much to look at, just an open room with a few tables and chairs and a bar where the innkeeper stood. It was a no questions sort of place, the type that the brothers have frequented over the years. The stairs leading to room on the upper floor are old and creak as Dean and Cas make their way up. They stop at the second door in a long hallway and Dean reaches into the coin purse at his hip, removes a brass key and turns it in the lock.

 

The room on the other side is simple, just a bed on one wall with a dresser, desk and chair on the other, but it’s nearly the size of the entire room Castiel called home. Dean steps around him as he’s stood in the doorway staring out into the room, makes his way over to the dresser, removing a few articles of clothing then grabbing an old, worn looking journal from the desk and walking towards Castiel and out of the room again.

 

Dean walks to the room across the hall and knocks on the door. Almost immediately it’s opened, and on the other side stands his brother looking annoyed but otherwise unharmed.

 

“Hey, Sam,” Dean says, pushing past him and going into the nearly identical room.

 

“Dean, are you kidding me?  _ Dove sei stato!  _ It’s been two days! Two!  _ Due!”  _ Sam yells in a mix of a flowing, musical language that Castiel was unfamiliar with and Common, following in Dean into the room. 

 

He’s taller than Dean by least a head, seeming to tower over Castiel even from where he stands in the doorway to the room. His shoulders, broad and muscled like his brother’s and covered by similar travel worm clothing, are squared with frustration as he follows Dean as he moves throughout the room. The boy, though just from his stature alone Castiel could not tell whether he’s older or younger than he is himself if Dean had not told him, glances at him from the corner of his eye and halts in his speech. They lock eyes for a moment, and Castiel can see him go from startled, as if this was the first time Sam has seen him standing in the doorway, then confused before finally settling on controlled anger before his head snaps to his brother where he seems to be sorting through the books stacked on the desk in the room, long brunet hair flaring out as he does.

 

“Dean, who is this?,” Sam asks, tone clipped and brows furrowed. 

 

“Sam, this is Castiel,” Dean says, pausing in his rummaging to address his brother and their guest, who Castiel is now beginning to feel he might not be as welcome as he had originally hoped. He can feel the tips of his ears warm from embarrassment as the younger boy turns to regard him with a less than impressed look on his face. 

 

After a moment, Castiel attempts a small wave to try and defuse the tension between them. It doesn’t.

 

“We’ll be escorting him into the capital tomorrow, for the festival.”

 

That, however, does.

 

Sam starts, turning to fully face his brother and starts to speak in the same language. His words flow together with an accented flourish that only comes from particular displeasure, but even then Dean doesn’t look a bit affected by it. If anything, Castiel would guess that he’s amused by his younger brother’s annoyance, if the half smirk on his face was anything to go by. It’s an odd thing to witness as he and Michael are never this at odds with one another. There’s a moment or two more for Castiel to observe the dynamic of the two brothers from his place just outside the room before he’s being addressed and Sam is being cut off.

 

“Castiel,” Dean catches his eye for a moment before looking back at his brother, ”Why don’t you  get settled in my room for the night? We’ll be heading out early tomorrow.”

 

Sam scoffs at hearing this, about to go back from where he was interrupted, but the look he and Dean share is enough for him to stay quiet enough for the elder to send Castiel a small, encouraging smile and a wink before he quickly turns and heads back to the room he and Dean were just in, closing the door behind to give the two some privacy and for his complexion to return to a normal, less heated state.

The moment the brothers hear the click of the door across the hall, Sam is back at it, turning to his brother with an annoyed flourish that makes his hair flair out and speaking in harsh Lowland.

 

“Are you serious Dean? I know it doesn’t take much to excite you but you can’t honestly expect us just take in every person you find attractive!”

 

“Hey,” Dean says, tone amused and not looking up from his task, “I resent that.”

 

The elder Winchester isn’t paying his brother much attention, just continues moving Sam’s belongings around so that he’s got a place to put his. He’d been looking forward to having a room of his own this time around but with the addition of Castiel he doesn’t see how that could possibly happen. 

 

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t know you’d meet your soulmate in the middle of the freaking forest.”

 

“C’mon, Sammy, it’s not like that-”

 

“Really? Cause from where I’m standing, you being gone for two days and then showing up with a disheveled boy who’s just your type and promising him  _ another _ night on the town, it looks a lot like what I think it is.”

 

Finally, Dean looks up and meets Sam’s eye.The younger boy’s arms are folded across his chest and his face is drawn tight in a mix of annoyance and frustration. He’s got every right to angry at Dean, he’s young and with just the two of them,days with no word from the other was unheard of for them. Dean’s all he has left.

 

Still, something about Castiel makes Dean want to defend him, to convince Sam, even though he himself had only just meet the boy, that there’s something more to him than just some supposed pretty face that Dean has stumbled upon in the wilderness.

 

“Listen Sam, this kid,” Dean sighs, leaning back against the table he’d placed his bag, “he’s something special”

 

Sam gives him a look.

 

“Not like that! I mean look at this,” Dean stands straight and roughly untied his tunic and pulled his collar down, exposing his left shoulder. Sam gives him a confused look before Dean continues, “I had an arrow go straight through, there was blood everywhere, I couldn’t even feel it anymore. Cas just laid hands on it and my arm was completely healed.”

 

Sam looks startled at the news and asks how that’s possible. Dean hesitates, worried that maybe it isn’t his place to tell Castiel’s story, what little he knows of it, without the boy knowing, but relents after a moment more of silence. He recounts most of the last few days events after he’d separated from Sam, giving just the facts he knows and leaving out what he felt wasn’t important for Sam to know, like the clear way Castiel had reacted to the world around him, like he was seeing it for the first time despite selling himself to Dean as something of a guide. It’s behaviour that he knew his brother would find suspicious and he wanted to ask Castiel himself about this before drawing any conclusions about it. 

 

There’s a heavy moment of silence that passes between the brothers once Dean’s finished, the Winchesters sharing a look between them, before Sam finally speaks.

 

“...He was just in a tower? In the middle of the woods?”, Sam questioned, finally relaxing his shoulders and unfolding his arms. “ Don’t you find that a bit, I don’t know, weird or suspicious or-”

 

“Nonsense, Sammy,” says Dean, sensing his brother’s doubt and thinking quickly, “I find it to be exactly what we’re looking for.”

 

Sam sends him another confused and doubtful look, but stays silent, giving his older brother an opportunity to explain himself.Dean makes his way over to his brother with a put upon swagger in his step, using the movement to stall and create something believable to say. Once he’s a few steps away, he stops, shoots Sam a look that usually accompanies one of his plans and speaks with a tone that he hopes hides that fact that he’s definitely talking out of his ass.

 

“With the powers Castiel has, on top of this mysterious past of his it’s obvious that he’s some important missing person, maybe a nobleman’s son or the brother of some duke or spellcaster. He’s someone important to someone else, all we have to do is figure out who and where, and by the end of the week we’ll be riding back to the valley with our pockets full. If spending a few hours with an attractive young man is the price I’ve got to pay then so be it.”

 

Sam’s looks slightly more convinced, but there’s still a part of him holding out doubt. 

 

“Plus, I’m sure returning the Earl of Benedict’s son safely home could earn us a pardon or two.”

 

The younger Winchester considers him for a moment looking, giving the other’s smirk a once over, before rolling his eyes and huffing.

 

“Fine,” Sam relents shouldering past Dean to move further into the room, “Are you sure about this, Dean?”

 

Dean smirks

 

“Samuel, have I ever steered you wrong?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Dove sei stato! - Where have you been!
> 
> Due! - Two!


	7. Chapter 7

The sun crests high over the horizon the following morning, the mid-summer sun warming and guiding the way to the Heart of Easeden.

 

Despite the early hour, sweat had already begun to bead on the foreheads of the travelling group, more so on Castiel than on the Winchesters even as they walked along side Fjord instead of riding her as the young brunet does. Castiel wants to attribute it to their southern, Valley blood making them more used to the burn of the summer sun regardless of the layered tunics and shirts the brother wear in spite of the season. Even in his own light tunic and short trousers Castiel was boiling and tired from their early morning travel, not used to himself being awake at such an hour, let alone travelling any distance during it, and were it not for the hood of his riding cloak blocking his eyes and skin from the burn of the sun, Castiel would do away with the garment as quickly as his could if it meant relief from sticky, slick slide of his skin under fabric.

 

His discomfort might have been more clearly shown than Castiel would have liked because just as he let’s out a heavy, put out sigh, his third or fourth in just the last minute, and reaches up again to wipe away the sweat pooled on his brow, he hears a snicker from his side.

 

When he turns to look at the source, face twisted in a mix of scowl and a pout, Castiel meets the the eye of Dean, who’s attempting to stifle a laugh and obscure the smirk on his face behind his hand and doing a poor job at both. 

 

“Feeling a bit warm there, Cas?” Dean says, using the nickname as a sign of affection and to tease the younger boy. “Always thought Midsummer’s children were meant to be immune to the heat.”

 

Castiel’s not sure where he got that knowledge from, it wasn’t in any book he’d ever read, even the strange, foreign ones Michael sometimes brought when he visited the port city that attempted to detailed the obscure nature of the soul and the functions of the body. It’s confusing how Dean could be so sure of this fact if even scholars weren’t agreed upon simple facts about the state of a person, and Castiel tells him as such.

 

“Where did you hear that?

 

“Of course it isn’t,” Dean chuckles and continues to smirk up at Castiel. “It’s one of those things people say, almost like a legend or a myth. Like how children born in  _ Maggio _ make for annoying know it alls, “ Sam interjects with an amused scoff, “ and winter’s children are always devilishly charming and handsome.”

 

Castiel squints and thinks a moment.

 

“None of that is true.”

 

Sam let’s out a loud peal of laughter at the statement, boyish and light despite his size and age. Castiel’s not sure why, he’d only been honest about the lack of evidence supporting Dean’s claims, but it causes a laugh, a full genuine laugh to escape Dean’s lips as well and the brunet finds he’s okay with the confusion if it’s brought such wide smiles to his friend’s faces.

 

The travel for a short period of time, laughter and banter continuing to be passed between the brother with Castiel adding in occasionally, before the trees begin to lessen and the grey stone battlements of the city’s walls finally can be seen peeking over the green of the wood. 

 

Paved cobbled stone stretches out in front of them, forming the the bridge leading to the gates of the City of Shirley. It guides them over the calm moving current of the Lawrence River below them. Here, at it’s northern most point, the water only spans a few hundred feet across, unlike in the south where it can reach a number of miles across. The sound of the water is calming, helping to soothe the rush of thoughts passing through Castiel’s head looks up at the city ahead of him. 

 

Everything about it seems so much bigger close up. 

 

From his tower, the battlements seems small and almost muddled as the detailing of the stone work couldn’t be seen at such a distance. Now Castiel can tell that wasn’t just the castle’s towers that climbed high towards the sky, but the watch post of the wall protecting the city as well, standing tall and hearty. Each wall and tower Castiel could see was deeked in banners of gold and amber for Midsummer’s festival, draped and hung light rays of sun themselves and embezzled with the violet blue of the King’s Crest. As they pass through the gate and in the the bustling festivities already underway, Castiel marvels at it all.

 

There’s an exchange between the brothers the Castiel barely catches, something about securing Fjord in a stable and Sam going off on his own, but it doesn’t matter to him. He’s finally here, out in the world and the feeling of freedom is so foreign that Castiel doesn’t know what to do other than smile. 

 

* * *

 

Never had Castiel been anywhere so alive with people.

 

It was true that he’d also never left his tower before today but even then the fairytales and books he read detailing crowded markets and celebrations had not done justice to the real thing. All around him are people, children laughing and playing with each other as they talk or shop or look on in amusement. The streets are loud and bustling with music and chatter, everyone seeming to sing along to melodies dedicated to the sun and the bounty it brings. Even Dean joins in broken Easeden, staying closes to Castiel’s side as they make their way through the city, avoiding the attention of guards as best they can. 

 

Despite the secrecy they still have to move under, Castiel’s spirits are still high. He chats animatedly about the things he’s never seen or tasted and telling Dean about all the things he wants to try and taste. Dean takes it all in stride, seemingly used to going with the whims of other with a smile, answering any question he could and making suggestions on their next stop.

 

They watch a troupe perform scenes alongside stalls holding artisans and craftsmen, the scene not one Castiel had read before but entertaining just the same. They browse the  merchants, finding wood and metal worked trinkets they dazzle Castiel with their artistry. There’s even, shockingly, some items imbued with an energy similar to his powers being sold by a kindly, older couple. They both seem to have a small amount the same energy within them though it isn’t as honed nor does it shine as brightly as it does within Castiel or his brother. Still, it all seems old to him, that they would be able to craft and sell wares that have had spell applied to them. His interest seems to draw Dean’s attention to him, but even though the Winchester offers to buy him something Castiel refuses and changes the subject, this time keeping his confusion to himself.

 

They continue to walk on, stopping to watch and sing and clap along as a crowd dances along to a traditional summer song that Castiel remember from his childhood. They’re almost pulled in to join themselves, one of the musicians, an older man with a beard and thick, accented Common, pulling at the “handsome couple” to join and bless the people with their “bountiful union.” They both laugh and kindly tell him no, faces both red but neither commenting on it, before moving on.

 

When they grow hunger and tired late in the afternoon, Dean offers to try and find what he calls the best dish in all of Easeden, a pastry of some kind full of fruit and nuts that the blond describes as being blessed but the gods themselves. He finds Castiel a place to wait for him in the square before rushing back into the market towards the food stalls.

 

Castiel sits, alone, on the edge of a fountain that rests in the very centre of the city. The crowds continues to move around him, but as he waits by himself, the wonder he’d felt begins to wane just slightly. What was recently so exciting, now felt overwhelming in his solitude.

 

He turns to try and distract himself, and catches the sight of as mural, the image created in mosaic that gleams in the sunlight. It depicts three people; a man, a woman and an infant, all sat looking out on the square. The adults must be royalty, Castiel thought, as they wore ringlets made of painted golden stone about their heads. The infant too, as they wore a band of gold on the wrist of the hand being held by its father. The three bore darker hair, light eyes and fair skin, which was interesting as most of Easeden’s people, at least from what Castiel had seen in the city, had traits that were all around lighter. On the ground below the art, there’s a gathering of all different coloured wild flowers placed, some purple and blue but mostly golden yellow. Castiel sees a child come up to it placing his own bundle of flowers down, before mumbling something and running off.

 

He hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten up to get an even closer look until Castiel’s shoulder bumps into someone. Castiel stops to apologise, taken out of the daze he’d been in to turn around and address the person, which turned out to be man whose face was hidden slightly beneath the hood of a worn cloak. The only part of his face that Castiel could make out was the bottom half of his face, his mouth hanging slightly agape in what looked like shock.

 

The man doesn’t respond to Castiel’s apology, just stand in stunned silence. Castiel attempt to ask if he’s alright right again, but is stopped when he hears Dean’s voice call out for him back by the entrance to the square. Castiel gives a last apology, which is again met with silence, before running off to meet with Dean.

 

They’re day continues on from there, the pair staying closer together, arms linking as to not get separated once Dean notices Castiel’s sudden hesitance to be venture on his own, until the sun begins to set and they make their way back to the stables to meet back with Sam.

 

The ache in Castiel’s chest stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Maggio - May


	8. Chapter 8

_ It’s dark when Castiel opens his eyes. _

 

_ He’s not sure when they were closed, or why, but they were and now they aren’t. Now, they’re staring into a vast darkness that seems to stretch out endlessly at all sides. A dark, inky, encompassing dark that would swallow up any light within it, if Castiel had had a touch or candle with him. As it is, it seems to swallow up the brunet right where he stands; he’s barely able to make out the shape of his hand in from of him as he stretches it out into the dark. _

 

_ He’s barely able to feel it. _

 

_ It’s like the feeling you get after leaning on a limb for too long, like you know that part of you is still attached, can feel the phantom ache of it where the blood has stopped flowing but can’t quite remember what it means to control those nerves anymore. Or maybe it’s like surfacing after taking a long swim, your body remembering that weightlessness, seeming to float and become awash with that sensation, despite being square and solid on dry land.  _

 

_ Or maybe it was like neither of those things. _

 

_ Castiel wasn’t certain of the how, but he was sure of two things. _

 

_ It was dark, darker than it had ever been, and he could not feel anything but the pulse in his chest, almost like a heartbeat but somehow more distant, more foreign.  _

 

_ That was the only part of Castiel that the boy could truly take stock of. His hands had lost their feeling, same with his feet and the tips of his ears. Everything but that pulsing in his chest had become to slowly lose its place and meaning, until they too were part of the nothingness around him. With each pulse, more of Castiel’s awareness began to fade, the dark creeping slowly higher and higher up his body, spreading towards his shoulders and thighs, as the pulsing becomes stronger, becomes faster. _

 

_ Castiel thinks, perhaps he should feel afraid, but as the pulsing and the darkness grows and ache settles there in the hollow of his chest, burrowing deeper and deeper like a knife not sharp enough to cut but desperate to make it’s mark. _

 

_ It’s the only thing he can feel, that ache, as it grows and becomes dull then sharp then unbearable, leaving no room for Castiel to feel anything other it, to think about anything other that it. _

 

_ The darkness is at his throat now, clawing at his windpipe and trying to find a home in his lungs while the pulse just grows and the ache somehow pushes past unbearable - is there anything past unbearable, what could possibly be past that - _

 

_ He has to breathe. _

 

_ He can’t breathe.  _

 

_ He can’t. _

 

_ He  _ can’t.

 

_ Breathe. _

 

_ Breathe. _

 

**_Breathe-_ **

 

Castiel wakes from the dream with start, heart pounding in his chest and breathing ragged. There’s a headache forming behind his eyes, and alone in the dark of his room an uneasy feeling sits in his chest. He doesn’t know what to make of the feeling or what he’d seen, but Castiel is positive that staying by himself won’t help to remedy either.

 

Throwing back the blankets, he stands, entering the hall and making his way towards the door across his room leading to the Winchesters’. He notices that there’s a sliver of candlelight coming from where the door is slightly ajar, and Cas is relieved he won’t be waking Dean or Sam by entering. Just as he’s about open the door further and enter, he’s stopped by the sound of his name.

 

“I’m serious, it’s too much of a coincidence. It has to be Cas.”

 

It’s Sam. His voice sounds like it’s across the room, but Castiel can’t be sure of the distance. 

 

“And what if it’s not, huh? What then?”

 

“Then, nothing! I don’t see the harm in just bringing him to the King! If it’s not him, then that’s it!”

 

What they’re saying doesn’t make any sense. Why would they do that? Castiel thought they were friends. Why would the Winchesters just hand him over to the King like he was some criminal?

 

“And you expect Cas to just be fine with being handed over to the King’s Guard!? ‘Yeah, Cas, we’re just gonna turn you in for a reward, no big deal’!?”

 

“That was your idea in the first place, Dean!”

 

That’s it, Castiel has heard enough. He swings open the door, causing a loud bang that makes the two in the room jump. They turn towards the door from where they’re standing at the foot of Sam’s bed, and seeing that it’s Castiel who’d entered, they fall into a mix of guilt and shock. It serves them right. 

 

“Cas-”, Dean starts but doesn’t get a chance to finish as Castiel cuts him off, furious.

 

“Was what you were saying true? Do you plan to turn me in like, what, some common criminal?”

 

“No, no, of course not! Just-”

 

“Oh, so you and Sam weren’t talking about getting rid of me for a few pieces of gold!?” 

 

It just makes him angrier that Dean would try and deny what he’d only just heard the two say moments ago. More than anything he’s hurt that Dean would do this, would pretend to like him, to gain his trust, just to betray him. The legs of the furniture and the loose items items shake as Castiel sends out wave after wave of barely contained energy, control hanging by a thread. The brothers notice, and Sam moves forward slowly, hands outstretched  in an attempt to ease his anger.

 

“Just calm down, Castiel.”

 

“Stay away from me!”, Castiel yells, eyes glowing with tears gathered on his lashes. He feels another burst of energy leave him, larger than the ones before, the room is thrown into chaos.

 

The desk and chair are thrown into the middle of the room, hitting Sam and knocking the young boy to the floor. Dean gets hit in the back by a drawer from the dresser, causing him to stumble forward but otherwise stays standing. The glass housing the candles in the room and hall shatter violently, making Sam and Dean rush to cover their faces from the flying shards.

 

As the three of them are plunged into darkness, Castiel turns and runs towards the stairs leading to the main hall and out of the inn, tears streaming down his face.

 

He hears Dean call his name as he runs, but ignores it, putting the inn and the Winchesters far behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel runs until he finds himself back in the city square, sat in front of the same mosaic mural he had seen earlier. It’s not so late that the lamps have burnt out, but the bustle of the festival had died down to only a few passersbys. None of them seem to notice the boy sat on the edge of the looking pool, and Castiel’s glad for it.

 

His tears have long since stopped, leaving behind streaks on his cheeks. He feels like a fool, like he should have never left the safety of his tower and gone out into the world. It’s just as cruel and heartbreaking as his brother had always told him. 

 

He stares up at the colorful stones making up the image before him. The King and Queen look happy in the portrait, faces in a half smile, along with the infant prince held between them. Castiel isn’t sure if it’s his mood, but the longer he looks at it, the sadder the portrait becomes.

 

“It’s lovely isn’t it?”

 

Castiel gasps turning to the source of the voice, and sees a man stood just a few feet away from him. He’s dressed in a rugged cape, torn and frayed in some parts, much like his trousers. Underneath is a tunic that, though seeming old, isn’t as damaged as the rest of his clothing. His face is covered in a thick, light brown beard and is flecked with grey like the hair on his head. His eyes, light blue, are kind and Castiel is surprisingly comforted by them.

 

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you!” the man says, taking a step back.

 

“You’re the man from earlier,” Castiel realises, finally recognising the man before him as the same person he’d run into at the market.

 

The stranger smiles, “I guess I am.”

 

Castiel nods, not sure what else to say, turning his attention back to the mural and to his thoughts. Silence falls between them, Castiel looking sadly at the portrait and the stranger joining him on the stone to sit and do the same.

 

“You never said what you thought,” the man says after a moment. ”The portrait is nice isn’t it?”

 

“No,” Castiel answers honestly.

 

“No?”, the man asks, looking at Castiel.

 

“No,” Cas repeats, turning to meet the stranger’s eye, “It looks sad.”

 

The man give Castiel as curious look, taking a moment to consider him, before suddenly asking, “Do you know the story behind it? About Easeden and it’s lost prince?” When Castiel shakes his head no, the stranger nods back at him, turning to look back at the mural before beginning:

  
  


“Nearly twenty years ago, the King and Queen were blessed with a child. It was their first, a boy. The two were overjoyed that the Gods had gifted them a child on Midsummer of all days, the longest and most important day of the year. The entire kingdom celebrated the prince’s arrival, but the joy was not meant to last.

 

“You see, the boy was born small and sickly, a fact that was ignored by the King and his wife, blinded by the love they felt for the child. But as months passed, and the child became more and more ill, the couple became wise to their mistake. A call was sent out throughout the kingdom to any and every person of medical or magical knowledge in an effort to save the child. Hundreds flooded the capital and the King’s Court month after month, all hoping to save the life of their beloved prince, but none succeeded. Distraught, the King sent them away, locking himself and his family away to spend what time they had left together alone.

 

“Nearly a month into their seclusion a sudden, violent storm broke out over the city. It darkened the sky and shook the very foundation of the castle. Lightning struck throughout the city, a bolt even landing on the castle itself. It startled the King and Queen from their sleep, and, knowing the fragile condition of their child, the two went to check on him at the suggestion of the Queen.

 

“When they reached the infant’s room, however…”

 

The man pauses, his voice growing thick with emotion. He takes a moment to collect himself and clears his throat before continuing.

 

“When they reached the room, their child was gone. The kingdom was searched for months with no sign of the child anywhere. The whole of Easeden mourned, creating great works, such as this one, to remember their lost prince, though they never gave up hope that he would one day return to them. The Queen, devastated by the loss of her son, became ill, dying soon after his disappearance. The King locked himself away in his castle, and has hardly been seen in over twenty years.”

 

He ends the tale with a heavy brow, hands fisted on the stones beside himself. Even from just looking at the side of his face, Cas can see the affect the story has hold on the man. He turns to look at Castiel then, sending him a false looking smile.

 

“There’s a rumor, though, that the King still searches for his lost son, dressing in plain clothes and walking through the city in hope that he’ll one day spot him,” the stranger’s tone is heavy, thick with years of sadness that doesn’t match the smile he tries to keep on his face.

 

“Sad, don’t you think?” The man lets out a chuckle then, though it holds no humor in it,”To think he’d find his son after all this time?”

 

“I don’t think so,”Castiel says then, “It’s rather brave.”

 

Castiel offers the man a sad smile, hoping to convey that he shares in his sadness, and the man surprisingly returns it. He reaches his hand out then to place it on the man’s as a means of comfort. 

 

Just as his palm touches the back of the man’s, Castiel’s vision swims.

 

There’s suddenly a rush that goes through him, something close to the feeling he gets when he uses his power, a rush of energy and warmth, but different. Foreign. It’s not coming from Castiel, the energy feels unfamiliar and almost uncertain as it reaches out to the power that he holds within himself, but with it comes a warmth and age and affection that even in its foreignness connects to something within Castiel’s heart. A memory love forgotten.

 

“What was the name of the prince, again?” Castiel asks, breath caught in his throat.

 

“He wasn’t with the couple long enough for a name ceremony to take place,” he answers, tears brimming in eyes,”but the Queen wanted to call him Castiel.”


	10. Chapter 10

When Castiel was a child, he used to dream of falling. Of the air being trapped in his lungs, wind whipping around his face, a buzzing in his ears as he rushes closer and closer to the ground from the perch of his tower window. 

 

This is feels like exactly like that. 

 

It’s like the floor has suddenly been pulled out from underneath him, and the world around him swims as the tips of his fingers still tingle from the pulse of magic that passed through them. His heart is racing and he can tell through the haze of panic that his breathing is rapid, but he can’t stop because how could he possibly be calm in the face of this, of learning that everything he knew for the last twenty years of his life, that all of it was -

 

“Castiel,” the man’s voice and the feel of the grip of his hand pulls Castiel from his reprieve. The moment he realises what is happening he’s up from his seat, taking a step back from the other. A look of hurt crosses the man’s face but Castiel doesn’t have the peace of mind to be sympathetic with how shocked and confused he feels.

 

“Who are you?”, Castiel’s voice trembles as he asks. He feels he already knows the answer, that in his heart somewhere he knows who the man who sits in front of him is, but the feeling of overwhelming fear that rests in his chest and mind forces him to ask.

 

“Castiel, please-”

 

“ _ Who  _ are you?”

 

He says it with finality and desperation. It leaves no room for argument and the older man can see through the wide eyed stare of the other that he has no place to refuse the younger. He takes a moment collect himself, looking down at his boots to seemingly steeling his nerves as he squares his shoulders, before meeting Castiel’s gaze again and answering.

 

“I am Charles of Shirley, first of his name. King of Easeden, Ruler of the North, Protector of the Great Wood, Guardian of the Valley, and...“, he recounts his titles with practiced ease, tone and face blank as he speaks with an air of authority behind them, yet the mask seems to slip the closer he gets to the end and the moisture in his eyes returns as a tremor finds place in his voice, “I am your father…”

 

The words hit Castiel the same way the phantom of a memory does, suddenly and all at once, like he’d known at one point but had forgotten now is being hit with the realisation. He can see the truth in the King’s words, in the way the man stands before him with their shared eyes and brow and lip, the features that he himself had noted earlier that same day as being the parts of the mural that the son and father shared. The longer he stares the more the words sink in, and the more foolish and fearful Castiel begins to feel again. If this is truly his father that stands before him, in the body of the King of all of Easeden and its territories, than that would make him and his brother princes. It would mean that he could stop hiding, that just like the people he’d saw earlier that day in the capital he could live and be free to use his powers, that they could both be.

 

Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe the King was overwhelmed with the prospect of finding his lost child and it wasn’t really Castiel at all, he still can’t determine from whom that pulse come and it quite possibly could have been just a simple spell unknowingly cast by the older man from the grief he’d been feeling. Once those feeling wore off and he’s realised his mistake or worse he sees the curse that Castiel carries with him he’d quickly dismiss him, banish him back to the wood or worse. He’d done it before hadn’t he, Michael had told him countless times about their time on the run before the tower when he had been too young to remember. If the King had been so easy to as send his child away before, what’s to stop him now.

 

Its that thought that strangely turns the dread in his chest to a deep aching sadness, and before he can stop it there’s a stinging in his eyes and moisture on his cheeks. Charles must have noticed before Castiel himself had because just as suddenly the older man’s arms are wrapped around him, pulling him tight to his chest. It’s before Castiel even realises what’s happening, and even then he can’t bring himself to fully return the hug, only having the energy to close his eyes through his tears and cling to the hem of the other’s tunic.

 

They stand in the quiet and solitude of the square as the darkness of the night finally begins to creep upon them. They stand holding onto one another, a kind of peace residing in them that comes when sharing one’s grief, before the King gives a shuddering breath moves to take a step back, holding the boy at arms length. Castiel releases his hold on and looks up to meet his eyes. There are tears that match his own on Charles’s cheek.

 

“When I saw you in the market today, I hadn’t thought I - That you’d -”, Charles eyes fill again as he stutters through his words, a sad, hopeful smile on his face, “I thought that perhaps you were just a ghost, an old man’s eyes playing tricks on him. I was so in shocked I couldn’t find the words to speak, could not bring myself to call out to you for fear that I was mistaken. I couldn’t imagine, couldn’t in my wildest dreams hope that I would find you again, but I did, I -”

 

The King stops himself, tears flowing freely again on his face. He reaches up and cups Castiel’s cheeks, the younger leaning into the touch.

 

“I found you, Castiel.”

 

There’s such hope in his tone, such conviction and truth in it that Castiel casts away his doubts in an instant. The man that stand before him is not one that could turn away his own, his grief is too real and his eyes unclouded by anything other than the tears that rest in them. The way he holds Castiel is like someone hold glass, something precious and special and easily lost. 

 

“I know it’s sudden- it’s all so sudden- _ ” _ Charles stutters then, seemingly unsure about what he wants to say next. “But please, Castiel, return with me. Come home.”

 

Castiel’s breath catches then, his eyes widening.

 

“I- I can’t- I’m not-”

 

There’s too much happening, and Castiel can’t let something as important as this be decided in  another bout of his rash decision making. His life up until this point had been confined to one room, but now he had the entire kingdom, the entire world in front of him. There’s so much he has to consider, from what he wanted to Michael and now the Winchesters.

 

Charles seems to understand his hesitation, and the gentle look he gives Castiel in response to it is enough to comfort him.

 

“It must be a lot to take in so suddenly. I understand that you...may need some time to think this all over…”, the King’s thumb stroked his cheek, “You are welcome in my home at any time, should you like to join me there. Take your time, Castiel...consider what you want. I will stand by it.”

 

The King pulled away and took a step back from his son, hesitating for just a moment before finally releasing him. He consider the boy, eyes tracking his face, seemingly attempting to memorise every detail he could. Castiel does the same, before nodding and finally wiping the moisture away from his face.

 

“I will.”

 

Castiel steps back, eyes remaining on the other as he takes a final look at the King, with his sad eyes and hopeful smile, before turning away and heading in the direction of the inn. He fights the urge to look back as he does.


	11. Chapter 11

Castiel is lost in thought as he makes his way past the stone passage of the kingdom, the last of the lantern lights burning down as he enters the path that winds into the forest leading back to the inn as he considers all that’s happened that night. 

 

First, there’s the most imminent of his troubles: the Winchesters. He supposes that he now has a better understanding of what they had been discussing in their room earlier that night. They’d had their suspicions about who Castiel was and given the opportunity, they wanted to pursue their theory. The brothers had taken no consideration for his feelings on the matter obviously, but then again he supposed that maybe they weren’t used to having to consider how much their actions affected anyone other than themselves for a long time. Castiel found himself angry at them still, for even thinking to sell his friendship away for the reward of returning the kingdom’s  missing prince to the castle, but found that he wasn’t so annoyed as to not let them explain themselves once he’d returned.

 

The thought of the outcome of that conversation, be it escorting him back to the capital and his father or returning him back to his tower brought Castiel to his next point of contention.

 

Michael.

 

Thinking of him suddenly brought the ache back from his nightmare back to his chest. The man who’d been taking care of him for his entire life, who’d taught him control of his powers, read to him as a child and travelled days at a time just to retrieve something that would bring a smile to Castiel’s face, who was he? He’d been told that they were brothers, that their parents had died and that they were alone in the world, but that couldn’t possibly be true. From the King’s story, he and his wife had never had any children before or after Castiel, so how was it that Michael was his brother, that they shared any blood relation. He’d had no reason to challenge what Michael had taught him but then again he’d been wrong about so much of the outside world already. Perhaps he was mistaken again. Castiel often had a tendency to draw conclusions quickly and act rashly and stubbornly based on those judgments, he realised, so perhaps taking time to consider that possibility was now his best course of action, despite how it made his stomach sink and his throat clench. If it were true, if Michael was truly just a stranger to him, then that what would that mean for him? For his life in the tower? For his new found place in the world outside those stone walls?

 

“Castiel!”

 

The brunet is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of his name being called, and when he focuses again on his surroundings, he’s standing at the edge of where the cobbled walkway of the bridge meets the dirt of the forest floor. The voice calls again and once he realises he recognises it’s tone he turns to the direction it comes from, facing the city again, and is met with none other than the sight of his brother running towards him.

 

Michael’s attire is a mess, his hair disheveled and sticking in every direction, cloak haphazardly thrown and secured about his shoulders and the tails of his undershirt half sticking out from beneath his dirtied tunic. As he gets closer, Castiel can see the heavy circles under his eyes, dark purple and bruised, which seem glazed with a crazed frantic look in them that matches the  unkempt, unshaven hair on his cheeks and chin. 

 

“Michael-”, Castiel starts before he’s cut off as Michael comes to a stumbling halt in front of him, reaching out immediately and grabbing the younger boy by the shoulders. Castiel could feel his nail, sharp and longer than they usually were, digging into his skin through his shirt and winced as his brother began to speak, switching rapidly between Common and Easeden.

 

“Where have you been!? I returned home and you weren’t there, Castiel! I’ve been worried sick, wondering where you’d gone, who’s taken you, what they’d  _ done _ to you!”

 

The grip on his shoulders becomes stronger and tighter the more Michael continues to ramble and Castiel tries to get his brother’s attention to stop him but it’s to no avail.

 

“Have you any idea what I had to do to find you? How much trouble I had to go through to find a spell strong enough to tell me where  _ you _ were!?” Castiel suddenly remembers his nightmare and the strange ache it left in his chest, and understands the true nature of what it was. A tracking spell, linked to Castiel’s physical being or his powers, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it was a type of spell he was forbidden by Michael himself to use. 

 

“That was you? You told me I wasn’t to use my powers like that, why would you-”

 

The nature of their powers was an unpredictable sort, ruled heavily by emotion and intention more than it was bound by phrasing and incantation, Michael had told him as such every since he was younger. If his brother had known this, had experience enough with the consequences of the effects of their types of power, and had still used his on Castiel, what did that say about Michael, about his true nature and intention?

 

“Come, Castiel,” he says as if Castiel hadn’t spoken at all, eyes darting around as if looking for someone listening, “we must make our way home as soon as possible, it’s not safe for you to be out like this, were someone to see-”

 

He turns the other by his shoulders and begins to head the way he’d come, towards the city’s gate where Castiel notices the guards on duty no longer stand on watch. Perhaps if he keeps Michael distracted, resists him long enough for the changing of the guard to take place he could get away.

 

“That’s not true, Michael! I’ve made friends, I-”

 

“-should have never left you alone, it was my mistake to think I could trust you after-”

 

“Michael, stop you’re hurting-”

 

“-never again, Castiel, do you understand? Once we’ve returned you’re never leaving that tower again! _ ’” _

 

“No, you can’t Mich-” 

 

The two are stopped by the sound of hoof-beats going louder and louder as they approach, and both turn to see Dean leaping of the back of Chev and making his way towards them at a full sprint. Michael’s hold on Castiel loosens enough for the brunet to break free and run towards his friend. 

 

“Dean!”

 

The Winchester sees Castiel, then his brother stood behind him, and somehow seems to grow faster.

 

“Cas!”

 

Castiel’s only a few feet from Dean when Michael finally reacts.  He can feel it the moment before it happens, the static that rises the hair on his arms and the back of his neck and the pull of energy that forms around him, and Castiel tries his damnedest to make it those last few steps, to give one more push to get to his friend before the words ring out.

 

“ _ Gen ge Zacar _ ! ”  

 

Suddenly, he’s frozen, his entire body halted in such an instant that makes his ankles ache from the sudden stop in momentum. He looks down and can see a dark, navy blue almost black energy, something that looks like a mix between the half-solid, half-translucent appearance of a shadow with the slow movement of a stream, wrapped around his limbs. 

 

Dean runs into him, arms coming around to grab his shoulders and frantically pull at his friend in an attempt to get him to safety. It takes a moment for the Winchester to realise that the brunet in front of him won’t, or rather can’t, move, focus returning to him long enough for him to look down and see the magic swirling around his legs and hips and hear Castiel telling him that he’s been hit with a spell, that Michael’s cast a spell on him and he can’t move. The shift from fear and desperation to steady focus was nearly instant at that point, Dean’s jaw and shoulders squaring as he walks around Castiel to face Michael.

 

“Let him go,” the sound of metal sliding against leather rings in Castiel’s ears as the words leave Dean’s lips, and even with his back facing the younger boy, he can feel the weight of the threat carried in his tone, “You can’t keep him trapped, you’re no one to him.” 

 

Dean has no idea how else to help. Magic, especially like it is now- physical and pulsing in front of his eyes like shackles around Castiel’s body, is something far beyond his understanding but he knows how to fight, how to look tough and threaten and especially how to buy Castiel enough time to try and break free. 

 

Castiel understands Dean’s plan of attack, or better said his plan of distraction, but he’s not sure himself if it will be enough. He’s never encountered this type of spell before in his life, his powers were always something that existed inside himself that influenced the things around him, moving them or altering them slightly or at the very most mending what was broken. It was never a physical force or manifestation that could  _ control _ someone, and trying to break a spell this strong wasn’t something he was sure he could do. 

 

“And  _ you _ are!?” Michael’s voice is more like a growl than a person’s when he speaks, rough and grating. The magic around Castiel tightens enough to make him wince and Dean notices, the scowl on his face growing deeper. “I’ve done everything for Castiel! Everything! For  _ twenty years _ !”

 

“Wouldn’t call trapping someone in a tower in the woods model parenting,” Dean shoots back, taking a hesitant step towards the older man. Michael doesn’t seem to notice the movement, as mad and as focused he is on shouting back frantic Easeden at Dean. 

 

The Winchester peeks over his shoulder back at Castiel to try and gauge whether or not he’s making any progress on breaking free using his powers. He sees the younger boy reaching to put his hands on the energy wrapped around his limbs, but draws them back quick the moment they get too close, like the swirling mass is a newly doused fire, too hot to touch _. _ He’s not making any progress, Dean can tell, so it seems like their only option is for the Winchester to break Michael’s concentration long enough for him to drop the spell, to force his focus from Castiel to him. 

 

It’s like Castiel can sense the moment Dean’s focus shifts from defend to attack, can hear the way Dean’s tone goes from cautious mockery to outright threatening. He can feel the force and strain behind his words as Dean’s voice gets further and further from him. A pulse of heat, hotter and lasting longer than he’d felt before, runs through him going from his feet and burning up towards his waist and chest as the mass of swirling energy climbs higher and higher up his body. Despite the heat, Castiel’s blood runs cold, a lump of solid ice seeming to form within his chest as a panic settles into his blood, into his very core. 

 

Dean’s going to attack Michael. 

 

There’s no doubt about it, from the pace at which his voice grows farther and farther from Castiel’s back, to the venom clear in his, and now Michael’s, voice. They’re going to fight, bloody and desperate and right in front of Castiel, right where he stands helpless and frozen by his brother’s own powers used against him. He’s not sure if he’s more frightened of Dean being hurt or Michael being killed or the both of them crumbling to the ground bloody and broken, just out of his reach, unable to help - and god, who would he even help if he could get free, his brother or Dean- or stop them until it was too late. Castiel pushes frantically now with his powers and with his hands, ignoring the stinging and burning both in his hands and eyes from the effort, desperate to get free and stop the two as they grow closer and closer, grow angrier and angrier, enough to brawl, enough to maim, enough to kill-

 

There’s a shout of haunting, growling Enoch the rings out into the night, mixed horribly with a pained, bloodcurdling scream as a flash of electricity shoots up Castiel’s spine. 

 

It hurts for only a second, sparks resonating long enough in Castiel’s body for him to clench his teeth and bite back a sound of his own, when a body from behind him goes flying past the brunet to roll and crumple several feet in front of him. 

 

There’s no movement after that, not from Castiel himself nor the body nor from his brother behind him. A patch of dark red begins to blossom on the form’s side, spreading until it reaches almost as high as the shoulder Castiel had healed just days before. Dean lays motionless, not even the rise and fall of his chest disturbing the mock peace of his body as Castiel continues to stare, heartbroken and eyes stinging with tears unshed. 

 

He’s not sure for how long he stands there frozen, staring at his friend’s lifeless form before he realises that he can move, that Dean’s plan had worked, that Michael had been distracted enough to cast a different, more powerful spell on the Winchester, dropping the one that had a hold on his brother. In an instant, Castiel is moving, staggering weak limbed as fast as his grief ridden body can move towards Dean’s body, mind and limbs numb as tries to make his way to his friend, to offer some sort of help or healing but before he can even make it a few feet he’s stopped again by Michael’s voice. 

 

“ _ Ag…” _

 

It’s less gravelled, colder and more distance in tone than before, the Enoch falling from his lips sounding more like a stunned mumble, like he’s not as sure about casting as he had been moments ago. Castiel feels his body freeze again, but without the gripping pulse of the energy around him. He feels his heart freeze over as well, the same ache capturing it as it had moments ago when Dean had put himself in the line of fire for Castiel’s sake. It robs him of any other emotion, steels his heart and mind with the sudden realisation of Michael’s intent.

 

“Michael, no “

 

Castiel hears the older older brunet shift behind him, the muted sound of boots against paved stone as he approaches. Tears sting and overflow from the blue eyes that hold them, the back of his throat aching with unspoken sobs, clenched and swollen. 

 

“Michael,  _ please-” _

 

His brother could be so cruel as to force him away from Dean, his first and only friend. He could not have grown so cold to Castiel that he would tear him away from the Winchester’s side as he lays bloody and broken on the stone path.

 

“ _ Niis. _ ”

 

It’s said as a command, no room for argument or persuasion on Castiel’s part.

 

A sob breaks from Castiel’s chest, loud and broken like he’d been run through by the dagger that lay fallen by his friend’s side, as he turns to face Michael, the last sight of Dean being that same lifeless form, blood seeping through his clothing.

 

His body moves on its own with no input on Castiel’s part, as if tied to Michael. It follows as it was told, moving step by step at the pace step by Micheal set. The sobs don’t stop; not as they move back towards the city, not as they travel through the back alleys and not when they enter the Great Wood through a secluded, secret entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enoch Translation:
> 
> Gen ge Zacar! - Do not move!
> 
> Ag... - No...
> 
> Niis... - Follow...


	12. Chapter 12

The first thing Dean feels as he wakes is pain.

 

It aches in his shoulders and sides, like a mix of sleeping in an awkward potion and falling backwards off of Chev. He can’t remember if he’s ever had worse but he’s sure that his body has never felt quite this mix of sensation. The aching spreads from his torso, pulses through his limbs and neck and throbs in his head like a second heartbeat. He wants to open his eyes, to get a better understanding of how he’s hurt and at what point the pain in his side originates from, but just the thought of opening his eyes is enough to cause a wave of nausea and dizziness to overwhelm him, so Dean decides it best to remain in the darkness that he finds himself in for just a few moments longer.

 

He’s not sure how long it is until he begins to feel the rest of his senses return to him, first the feel of the stone and dirt that lay under him - he realises now that he’s lying down - then the taste of iron in his mouth, thick and acidic in the back of his throat. The last sense the return to Dean is his hearing, and comes with it the sound of wind rustling through nearby trees and fallen leaves.  Further off, Dean can hear the sound of footsteps he thinks, the muted thump of boots against soil. The sound grows as he lay there, first becoming to sets of steps, then joined by the airy staccato of heavy, winded breathing and finally a desperate call of his name.

 

Dean feels more than he hears his brother kneel next to him, taking stock of his motionless and wounded body for a moment before gripping his shoulders and pulling him to lay propped up against his body, all the while frantically saying his name and offering small, pleading comforts in distressed Lowland. The shift causes a bolt of pain to shoot up the older Winchester’s spine, forcing a wince and a groan to pass through his sore throat and bloodied lips. It pains him more than it should, but it causes Sam to allow his own groan of relief to escape his own lips.

 

“Dean, what’s going? Where’s Cas?” Sam’s tone is strained, a mix of concern and worry colouring his words, accent thicker and more pronounced with the weight of emotion even in his native tongue, and he moves his hands from his brothers shoulders down to his arms and then back up to this neck and back down again, like his nerves won’t allow his limbs to sit idle at the sight of his brother’s injured body. After a moment he gasps, like he’d been looking over Dean but is just now actually seeing him.

“Dean...what happened..?”

 

He thinks his younger brother had found the injury on his side, had pinpointed the exact point where Dean can feel his shirt and tunic stick wetly to his flank and shoulder, but Sam’s hands never make contact with his side.

 

Instead, he feels Sam’s hands meet his face, palms cupping his cheeks and thumbs running  across the skin just under his eyes, but rather that the smooth glide Dean expects, Sam’s finger catches on a raised line of skin, then another and another. Dean thinks they must look like a mass of vines on his face, running along his eyes and cheeks, a mess of scars like the others that run along the countless other stops on his body, but he can’t be sure, not when he realises that it’s not the vertigo that’s truly preventing him from opening his eyes, but these scars that his brother continues to trace lightly across his skin, as if the feather light pressure he places on his older brother’s wounds will cause him more pain.

 

He only lingers on this sudden loss of sight a moment more, only let’s that pang of fear that begins to sour in the back of his throat stay there for a fraction of a second, before he steels himself against it, recalling what and who exactly is the cause of his injury.

 

“Michael,” the name falls from Dean’s lips like venom, “he hit me with some kind of spell, couldn’t hear what it was but it hit hard. I don’t how long ago it was, could’ve been hours for all I know...”

 

Anger runs through Dean then, hot and potent like bile rising in the back of his throat, forcing himself to sit up without his brother’s support despite the pain that still radiates through entire being. It’s disorienting at best, he’s unable to find balance with the pain and fog in his head and the lack of sight leaves his body without point of reference, but he manages it if just through pure spite alone. He tells Sam the rest of his encounter then through gritted teeth, recounts how the moment they understood the danger Castiel was in how he’d fled their room to find him, tells of how he’d found Castiel struggling against his brother and about the fight that had followed, as much as he can remember it.

 

“He’s got Cas, Sam. That psycho’s got Cas, and we have to get him back!” He feels the panic burn up his throat again, can feel it cause his fists to clench where they grip Sam’s sleeves for balance as he stare angrily into the darkness. He’s much rather they be wrapped around a weapon, poised at Michael’s throat, or better yet wrapped around the lunatic’s flesh itself, making him pay for even thinking of causing Castiel even the slightest notion of distress. It’s the first time Dean has felt this strongly about a person besides his own brother, and while he’s not sure what to make of the meaning behind these feelings, he’d rather focus his energy in finding Castiel first. Emotions can come after he knows his friend is safe.

 

“Alright, Dean, alright,” Sam’s voice is calm, tinged slightly with the worry from before and now with anger from learning of their lost friend. He helps his brother to his feet, half supporting his weight when he notices Dean stagger and favour this left side, before placing a piece of what feels like worn leather in his good hand. There’s a tug and weight on the line, and then Dean feels the heat of Chev’s breath on his hand. He’d almost forgotten he’d ridden her out after Castiel. She must have been frightened by the commotion and run off when she’d seen Dean get hit. The eldest Winchester turns his hand over and places it on her nose as best as he can, silently thanking her and Sam for finding him.

 

“Let’s head back to the inn, I’ll patch you up and see if I can heal your eyes. Then we’ll figure out to do about Cas.” Sam shifts his weight forward slightly, giving Dean a chance to anticipate the movement and cautiously begin to take a step forward, trying to navigate blindly through the darkness Michael’s spell has trapped him in. Before they’ve even turn around to face what Dean can only assume is the direction Sam had come from, there’s the booming sound of one of the King’s Guard calling out to them telling them to stop where they are, then the sound of heavy footsteps approaching them. Sam curses under his breath, then shifts Dean to stand behind him. Around them, Dean can hear the sound of swords being drawn and feel the heat of soldiers surrounding them on all sides. Sam tenses in front of him, and Dean can tell that he’s taking in the number of men around them, calculating their best plan of action, if it’s better to run with Dean in such a condition or let himself be captured to allow for an easy escape for his brother.  

 

It seems Dean’s not the only one who can sense this same feeling of fight or flight coming from Sam, as the same booming voice from before commands, “Stay where you are, Hunters. By order of His Majesty, you are charged with the crime of theft and kidnapping, and are called to audience with the King immediately.”

 

“We haven’t done anything!” Sam growls back, annoyance and denial clear in his voice. Dean scowls from over his shoulder in the direction of the voice, frustrated that the Guard can’t give them a break at even the worst of times. Every moment they spend standing still is another moment Castiel gets further and further from then, and harder and harder to track.

 

“Silence! You are under arrest, by direct order of King Charl-”

 

“What crime could we have possibly committed?” Sam shouts back, tone outraged,”We’re just leaving the city after today’s festivities. My brother is blind, as you can clearly tell, so what proof do you have for such-”

 

“You were the last to be seen with Prince Castiel.”

 

The statement shocks the brothers into silence. They’re stunned long enough that neither Sam or Dean can respond in enough time as to refute the claim, and the soldiers take the Winchesters into their custody, Sam’s hand bound behind him, Dean lead by two guard’s with hands placed on his shoulders, and Chev lead by another close behind.  

 

* * *

 

 

They walk for some time, Dean’s unsure of how long, but he can tell that when they stop they are no longer outside. Instead, he feels the smoothness of stone beneath the soles of his shoes, the ground changing from the cobbled stones of the city’s streets to the smooth slabs of a rich home. There’s a slight breeze coming from high up and to Dean’s left, chilling the blood that still sit stuck to his clothing and skin, so they must be in a large, walled and windowed room, an assumption that supported shortly after Dean makes it by the way the head guard’s voice echos of the walls when he announces their arrival, the booming and deep quality of his voice hanging in the air like that of a great hall. The King’s Great Hall, if Dean’s guess were to be specific.

 

“Your Highness, we’ve apprehended two thieves at the entrance to your Great Wood,” Sam and Dean are made to kneel at this, knees hitting stone hard enough for both brother to let out a groan as they make contact, “They’re believed to be The Hunters, Samuel and Dean of Winchester, and were seen today with the Prince.”

 

“That’s ridiculous! We’ve done nothing!,” Sam yells from his side, defiant as ever, “We were simply attending the festival! My brother is blind, and he’s been hurt as you can see. Let us go!” There’s the sound skin meeting skin, followed by Sam cutting off the sound of a groan, and it’s obvious even with his lack of sight that one of the soldiers grew tired of Sam’s back talk and struck him. Dean’s jaw clenches at the realisation, another layer of anger added to what was already swelling inside of him.

 

“Silence! Those wounds are superficial, obviously one of their _brottsling_ tricks, don’t believe their lies, Your Majesty.”

 

“You idiots don’t know shit!” Dean chimes in now, done with the distraction of their arrest and ready to move on to what is most important at this point: finding Castiel. He struggles against the rough grip of the guards holding him down and the pain that still runs through his body, “Our friend, that’s the person you saw us with, he’s gone missing and we were on our way to find him! That’s all we were doing! Let us go-” Dean receives a shove of his own, his body crumpling to the ground for the second time that night, a cut off shout of pain passing through his lips.

 

“I said be quiet you-”

 

“That’s quite enough.”

 

The third voice isn’t one that the Dean recognises personally, but it’s cadence and power is one that he would know anywhere. It was the voice of the King himself, steady and wise and clear of judgement despite the confidence and command it held in its tone. Dean has never seen the King himself, he was too young to have been alive when he had made visits to the Valley and both brothers only knew him from the legend they were told about the kingdom’s lost prince, so to meet him without his eyesight made no difference to his impression of him. Regardless of whether or not he was the King of all of Easeden or Castiel’s father, he was an obstacle, another distraction that kept the brothers finding their friend.

 

Dean hears the King approach him as he’s pushing himself back up to kneeling, the subtle glide of soft leather against stone and fabric rustling against itself alerting the Winchester to the older man stood a foot or two in front of him. The guards stand at his back, caution and present even as they give he and the King space.

 

“I know your face,” the King says after a pause,”You accompanied my son in the market today. I thank you for keeping him safe,” he takes another pause, shifting for a moment and when he speaks again his tone is strained and his voice is closer to Dean than it had been a moment before, “though I can’t say I’m happy to see him out of your care so soon.”

 

There’s a hand on Dean’s left shoulder then, the weight as light as it can be while still making contact, and then a shift in the air that makes the hair on the back of his neck and arm stick up. An odd feeling spreads through Dean then, starting at his shoulder and slowing working its way through the rest of his body It was not unlike when Castiel had healed his arm a few days prior but not exactly the same either. Where Castiel’s powers had warmed him, stitching his body back swiftly yet gentle, like thread gliding through cloth, this felt more like the dizzying waves of healing the came with the type of spells his brother used to nurse his wounds, no warmth, just a disorienting nausea that this time came faster and all at once. He can still feel the blood that has seeped into his clothing even though the fading waves of sickness let him know he’s fully healed. It makes Dean sway where he knelt, nearly knocking him flat if it weren’t for the King’s hands keeping him steady and then helping him to his feet, the older male speaking as he does so.

 

“I spoke with my s- with Castiel earlier this evening. Once we were finished, I felt it my duty to make sure he returned to you boys safely, and so I placed him under the watch of my best men. Although, from the nature of your wounds...it would seem perhaps the choice was for naught…”

 

Dean gives himself a moment to let the dizziness and nausea fully fade before he tries again to open his eyes, hoping beyond all hope that the healing spell was strong enough that his sight had returned to him. He clenches his eyelids, trying to loosen the swollen skin that he still feels on and around them and tries to separate them one at a time.

 

Neither moves, and Dean remains trapped in darkness as the King waits, anxious and unsettled in front of him for news of his child.

 

After another moment, in which Dean internalises the great feeling of loss he find growing in him, the eldest Winchester recounts the events of the last day, giving a quick summary of how the brothers had met Castiel and found their way together and a more detailed account of the past few hours leading up to Dean being hit with the spell. From behind him, the voice of the lead guard questions his credibility, asking how he could possibly be trusted and believed if he and his own brother had said that he was blind.

 

“I was hexed, _stronzo_ ,” Dean retorts, “check for yourself.”

 

He can feel the hand on his shoulder again, this time followed by an odd feeling, almost like fluttering in his chest but not quite, that is gone as quickly as it comes. The hand leaves him after the feeling fades, a saddened sigh falling from the King’s lips before he turns and his voice carries away from Dean and towards his men.

 

“He speaks the truth, there are traces of magic that I can not remove on his body. Release his brother.” Dean hears the sound of Sam being hauled to his feet and the presence of the guards standing closest to him back aways just slightly.

 

“Unfortunately, I am unable to heal you,” his tone is sad again, which Dean finds odd for a King, “but you may be able to aide in locating Castiel.” He speaks rapid yet precise Easeden to the soldiers around and a few respond in the affirmative before exiting the room in a hurry.

 

“What’s the plan, Your Highness?” Sam’s voice comes from closer than Dean is expecting and it startles him, though he tries to hide it. Neither male comments on his reaction if they do notice.

 

“Please, no need to stand on ceremony when you are friends of Castiel, address me as Charles,” the King, or rather Charles, responds with a slight tone of amusement in his tone, as must as he can muster before falling back into that same saddened, serious sound, “There are a few in my care that are gifted in spell casting, clerks and healers mostly, a few scholars as well.” He pauses to address the soldiers as they return to the room with what sounds like maybe four or five more people accompanying them, the words and language still unfamiliar to Dean as before but grating on his nerves greater with his lack of sight and reliance on his other senses even as they fall short. When Charles addresses them again, he’s lost the sadness in his voice and replacing it is determination and focus.

 

“With their help, and the traces of magic clinging to you, Dean, I think that perhaps we can track Castiel.”

 

Charles explains the process as quickly as he can and people move in a flurry of Easeden and movement around Dean. The spell casters, along side the King and Sam, who volunteered the moment it was made clear that he was competent enough in his own spell casting to lend aid to the others, would channel the spell through Dean in hope that the hex placed on him would connect to Michael’s power somehow and lead the group on a path to him and in turn, Castiel.

 

It’s simple as spells go, more complicated than the tracking spells he and Sam had used on items before, but still shared enough characteristics that Dean understood what was going on around him even without knowing what the action around him looked like. Dean also knew from experience, however, that a spell like this took hours at best. Hours that he knew they didn’t have, not with the way Michael had looked before he’d thrown that hex at him, crazed and dangerous like he’d been just on the cusp of losing his last grips on what sanity he had left.

 

It tooks maybe an hour or so, it was hard to tell, before the group finally found what they recognised as what Michael’s powers felt like, but even then it was only the feeling of it, a general idea of where he and Castiel may be now or had been recently, it would take time for them to focus and hone into where Michael actually was at the moment. It was maddening for Dean, to spend all this time to try and find Castiel, only for them to still be no closer to finding him. His annoyance and frustration must have been clear to those around them because just as it’s reaching its peak, Charles’s voice catches his attention.

 

“You must be tired, Dean. You’re job is done, you can rest if you like.”

 

The moment the words leave his lips, Dean is reaching out his palms until it hits the wall closest to him, brushing off the help of one of the guards that try and help him make his way around the room.

 

He moves slowly, tracking his location by the feel of the stone walls, working his way toward the warmth of the summer night outside until his nostrils are filled with the smell of hay and that the sound of horses. Dean calls out to Chev until he finally finds his stall, fumbling a moment with the lock keeping her in before he finally manages it, and then clumsily making his way to the horse’s side and then a top her back, leaning down until his front is pressed against Chev’s neck. Using his grip in her hair, Dean guides Chev out of the stable and then away from the castle ground towards the sound of the wind through the trees and the Great Wood.

 

Towards Castiel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Brottsling - Criminal (Swedish/Easeden)
> 
> Stronzo - Asshole (Italian/Lowland)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading!
> 
> Link to art and can be found [here](http://kamicom.tumblr.com/post/167996077347/title-the-lost-prince-author-artsiel-artist)  
> 

They’ve been walking for sometime in the semi-darkness of a summer night in the Great Wood.

 

Castiel had stopped crying some time ago, throat going sore and eyes going dry long before the grief had finished finding it’s home deep in the boy’s chest. He had left Dean behind, hurt or dying or worse, on the stone path leading from the city. Michael forced him to do so, his powers taking hold of Castiel’s body before he could do anything about it, and even then, as he pushed against the command to follow with his own powers, he could feel the strength of Michael pushing back and stopping him.

 

He was trapped, doomed to a life with a man he thought was his brother, who he thought cared for him and about him, but had turned into a stranger right before his eyes. Even now, as Castiel looks ahead at the hunched, tense shoulders of Michael in front of him, hair even wilder from when leaves and twigs had fallen into it as they made their way deeper and deeper into the wood and head moving paranoid and panicked back and forth as he mumbled to himself in a mix of Easeden, Common and Enoch, Castiel can’t say he recognises the man that stands before him.

 

It’s silent between them, other than Michael’s frantic mumbles to himself. Neither addresses the other, and Castiel can already feel the weight of his future loneliness begin to envelop him. He thinks for a moment that perhaps trying to talk to Michael will bring some sense back to him, enough so that Castiel can maybe convince him to drop at least the a fraction of the spell controlling him.

 

“I made a friend, _broder_ , while you were away.”

 

Nothing, no break in mumbled speech or acknowledgement that Castiel had even spoken.

 

“It’s two friends actually, they took me to the city…”

 

Again, nothing.

 

“I meant the King, today as well, he said he was…”

 

There’s a pause there, Michael’s voice quieting a moment and his shoulders relaxing even as his legs keep him and Castiel at a steady pace through the trees. Castiel seizes the opportunity.

 

“He said he was my father, Michael...I’m not sure if I’m to believe him because father...is dead right Michael. That’s what you’ve always told me, so it must be a lie...right Michael…?”

 

There’s a longer pause, leaving just the wind and rustling of creatures in the brush around them, and their pace slows by a fraction and Michael finally seems to hear Castiel.

 

“ _Broder_ , please.”

They walk for some time after in silence, Castiel following behind Michael as the trees become denser and denser around them. The wind continues to whistle and rustle around them, and Castiel wishes he hadn’t left his cloak earlier that night.

 

“When I was younger, I was a member of the King’s Guard,” Michael says suddenly, tone and voice more coherent than Castiel had heard it been in hours, sounding more like the Michael he had known.

 

“I was maybe a year or two younger than you are now. It’s hard to remember exactly what age I was the time, but I do remember your birth. The entire kingdom was alight with your arrival, a blessing graced to our people by the Gods themselves...To think that out of everyone, out of all the men on the King’s Guard, of all those pledged to his sword, that I would be chosen to watch over you...Gods, Castiel, it was like a blessing onto itself.”

 

He take another silent moment to himself, hand sweeping out to force away a thorny branch from Castiel’s path, seeming not to notice the way the thorns break open the skin on his palms nor the blood that drips down onto the forest floor, before he speaks again.

 

“I had been apprenticed with a spell caster at the time as well, under a scholar who had been skilled in the study of older more unknow schools of magics. As you grew sicker and sicker as an infant, I knew I had to try and do what others could not, that I had to be the one to try to cure you. It was my duty to my King, to my country.

 

“On a night, some months after your birth, you’d grown particularly ill. You’d been feverish for the better part of that month and that night had left you nearly unconscious in your suffering. I had no choice, it was the only thing I could do to try and ease your pain. I recalled a spell I had read the day prior, one of the older tomes had mentioned some sort of powerful healing magic, something I knew would be strong enough to cure you or at the least break the fever. Or so I thought…” he goes silent again for a moment, seemingly pulled back into the memory. Castiel waits, following dutifully behind, almost thankful now for the spell that forces his leaden feet forward.  “A storm had formed as I conjured the spell; I thought perhaps it was my drawing of energy that had caused it, but in reality it was the spell itself and instead of drawing from that power, when I cast the spell you became that power.

 

“Your body absorbed the magic, Castiel. The power had healed you, yes, but it had also bonded with your very being, it had become you,” Michael takes a breath then, sounding and looking resigned like recalling this story is removing a weight he had placed on his shoulders, “You became startled by it and cried. It caused lightning to strike the castle, right above your nursery...I could hear the other guards and King approaching. I knew I couldn’t let them see you, couldn’t let them see what had become of you, what I had _done_ to you. It wasn’t safe for you, not with the curse I’d somehow placed on you...so I took you and fled.”

Michael stops speaking again and falls silent. Castiel lets the the words sink in, now that he knows the truth of who Michael is, of why he did what he did. He not sure how to respond, if he even can respond.

 

“I apologise, Castiel, for lying to you, for keeping this truth from you, but I feel no remorse for what I’ve done. I was following my orders. I was protecting you. I am always protecting you.”

 

Castiel remains silent.

 

They continue to walk.

 

The wind moves through the trees. The night is warm.

 

It’s silent.

* * *

It’s quiet.

 

Dean’s never liked the quiet, never much enjoyed the moments of silence where he was forced to listen to the world around him. He was used to the company of his brother or of strangers in taverns or even in those rare moments of solitude, the sound of Chev’s hooves or breath as they travelled. True silence, that kind that leaves one alone with one’s thoughts, was never a luxury Dean ever desired or pursued

 

Now, in this forced darkness he’s in, the quiet is almost deafening.

 

As he travelled, clinging to Chev with hands gripped tight in her mane, the forest was unnaturally silence, the sound of branches and leaves shift underfoot and wind through the trees nearly non-existent. The only sign that Dean was headed in close the direction he was told Castiel and Michael was the smell of dirt and trees around him, but even then he was travelling at such as pace that even the speed of Chev’s breath, which like the forest could almost barely be made out with the lack of speed Dean’s loss of sight forced them to take up, couldn’t be relied on as method to track the length of their quest. They could have been travelling mere minutes or full hours by this time without any point of reference, other than the silence.

 

The silence and his thoughts.

 

At the moment, they drift from focusing on keeping balance astride Chev to straining to make out any sort of sound in the uncanny darkness around him to more obvious topics like the reason why he’s in this situation to begin with.

 

Castiel.

 

Just the thought of his name causes Dean’s fists and jaw to clench just that much tighter. The fact that he’s out here somewhere, alone and probably terrified with that maniac of a brother does nothing to soothe the anger rising again in the back of his throat and pit of his stomach.

 

It’s odd to feel this strongly about someone he’d only met three days prior, to be willing to go searching blindly for them, to readily seek out danger if it ensures that person’s safety...it’s not something that Dean finds is familiar to him outside of Sam. Even so, as the night and forest moves and breathes around him, silent and without comment or judgement, he finds that the feeling isn’t forced. It comes as nature as it would if it were his brother that was in danger, as obvious as breathing or taking up his blade. Somehow rescuing Castiel, ensuring his safety and contentment, means more to Dean than anything has before, more than even returning his eye sight.

 

Dean would rather go the rest of his day without ever opening his eyes again if it mean that Castiel was returned to his side.

 

It’s a shock to come to that conclusion, enough that Dean is startled enough that his breath catches in his throat. Before he can even dwell on what these new feelings mean, he catches the muffled sound of leaves moving and branches breaking a little ways ahead and to the left. He quiets and slows Chevs to almost a stop, listening and moving in that direction as silently as he can. The weight and speed behind the noise couldn’t be the wind or an animal, there was too much weight, the motioned seemed too human to be anything but that. Still, Dean approaches with caution, steading Chev before clumsily dismounting and withdrawing his knife from hsi belt, unsure who or what he was truly making his way toward.

 

That is until he’s close enough to make out a voice, low and timid.

 

Castiel.

 

* * *

 

It happens suddenly, a flurry of sound and motion.

 

One moment, Castiel’s alone with Michael, trying to muster the courage to speak the same way he had before instead of the stuttered, half sentence he had mutter for the last mile or so. The next, there’s a shout nearby, accompanied by the violent shaking of bushes as a figure quickly approaches them through the darkness. Just as quickly, Michael grabs Castiel hard enough to bruise and moves to block him with his body, the grip still holding the younger brunet in place.

 

Castiel can’t make out who the person is first, the lack of light and Michael’s body blocking him making it hard to see, but soon it’s clear, especially from the voice that continuously calls out for him.

 

“Dean!”

 

The figure turns in the direction of his voice and staggers forward, step certain yet directionless somehow, into a patch of moonlight streaming through the trees, and there he is. Dean, stood bloodied and ragged but alive somehow. The Winchester moves forward again, the blade in his hand swinging reckless and aimless in front of him.

 

“Cas! Castiel!” Dean calls his name again, head turning this way and that without ever fully facing the two other men. “Let him go, you son of a bitch!”

 

It confuses Castiel as to why Dean hasn’t already charged at them. He’d been so keen for a fight earlier that night, dagger drawn and voice stern in the same aggressive fashion as they are now. Castiel moves just enough to look around where Michael’s shoulder blocks his view without drawing too much of his and sees the reason for Dean’s hesitation.

 

There’s scarring around Dean’s eyes, swollen raised skin that webs across his eyelids and out towards his cheeks and eyebrows. It doesn’t seem to be causing the Winchester pain, not from the way he’s still moving so aggressively and without the hindrance of injury towards the two, but it’s clear that he’s unable to open his eyes. It takes less than a second for Castiel to realise what had happened to his friend. The spell Michael had throw at him had done this, had blinded Dean when it could have easily killed him where that Michael’s true intention, and now he somehow stands in front of Castiel in the dead of night attempting to save him. There’s a swell of emotion that Castiel can’t quite define in his chest, followed by an ache that overtakes it as Michael’s grip tightens around his bicep again.

 

Dean’s been hurt because of him, and now stands injured and defenseless because of Castiel, and for what? So that Castiel could leave his tower? So that a foolish, naive boy could fulfill his sense of adventure? Of rebellion? No matter how much it turns his stomach to think, how it sours the affection he’d grown for Dean that had developed over the short time they’d spent together, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to say any of this was worth it. Not if it meant that Dean was hurt.

 

“Brother, let me help him,” Castiel says in quick Easeden, foregoing Common to try to appeal to and focus Michael’s attention solely on him, his eyes staying locked onto Dean as he continues to stumble and call out for Castiel. “Please Michael.”

 

“No, Castiel,” Michael responses, voice wavering, “leave him. He’s blinded. If we leave now, there’s no way he’d be able to follow. No way for him to get help. He’d be trapped.”

 

Castiel doesn’t allow himself to think or dwell on what would happen if Dean was left to wander the wood in his current state, steels himself against the thought of it and focuses. It’s clear the Michael doesn’t care what happens to Dean, to himself even as he’s not yet healed or even noticed the cuts he’s acquired from the woods. There’s nothing he wants, nothing he can focus on other than-

 

Other than Castiel.

 

“Let me heal him, and I’ll stay with you.”

 

Castiel says it without hesitation, voice clear and sure, carrying loud enough and far enough that  Dean hears and halts his advance. Michael’s hand loosens and falls away from his arm before he turns and faces Castiel.

 

“Wh-What…?”

 

“I said,” Castiel finally turns then to face Michael, “that if you allow me to heal Dean, I will go with you.”

 

There’s moisture in Michael’s eyes, tear and redness rimming their green colour. His brow and lips quiver from the force of holding them back.

 

“No tricks?”

 

“None, brother. No fighting, no arguments, no compliant. Just let me heal him and you’ll never see me away from your side.”

 

Michael hesitates for a moment, eyes searching his brothers for any sign of a lie, before Castiel feels the weight of the spell lift from his body. When he doesn’t move immediately, Michael seems to just slightly, before telling Castiel to go.

 

Once Michael tells him, Castiel is running towards Dean, calling out to him as he gets closers as to not startle him. Dean drops the knife almost immediately as he hears Castiel’s approach, arms reaching out and grabbing him when they’re close enough. The force of Castiel running into him brings the pair to their knees, embracing on the forest floor.

 

“Cas, what’s going on? What did he say to you? Are you hurt?”

 

Frantically Dean pulls back, hands moving nonstop from Castiel’s back to his arms to his neck and back again searching for anything that felt like a wound. When they found nothing, Dean’s hands settled cupping Castiel’s face, calloused fingertips running along the cheeks.

 

“No, Dean,” Castiel brought his own hand up to cup Dean’s, “no I’m not.” Gone was the previous courage and confidence, now replaced with a cold sadness through the centre of his chest, moistening his eyes and wavering his voice. He reached out his powers to see what could be done for his friend. He could feel the heaviness of the hex, the mal intent behind it strong but not focused enough, as he assumed, to do any real harm. It was strong without question, but thankfully not something that Castiel couldn’t undo.

 

Castiel let’s out a sigh, relieved, before saying, “I’m going to try and heal you, okay?”

 

“Good, then I’ll be able to fight and-”

 

“No, Dean. There’s not going to be a fight…” Castiel cuts him off, hand tightening around Dean’s in an attempt to focus himself enough to speak. “I’m going to heal you and then I’m going with Michael.”

 

It’s harder than he thought it would be to say it, to tell Dean that they were parting ways so suddenly, enough that he can no longer hold his tears back. His head bows as he attempts to control his breathing and stifle the sobs that are fighting to escape his lungs.

 

“What!?” Dean’s hand drops but doesn’t let go from Castiel’s completely, instead falling to lay clenched in his lap around the brunet’s “Cas, what are you saying? Does he still have some kind of spell on you? I swear if that bastard’s done anything to hurt you, I’ll-”

 

“No.”

 

The single word, spoken in a tone soft but absolute, stops the Winchester, stalling his own. He leans his head forward until it rests against Castiel’s, and Castiel thinks that if he could he’d be crying as well.

 

“I’m going with him, Dean.“ Cas says, voice watery. He’s wasn’t lying when he told Michael and Dean that there would no fight tonight, no fight over him again. There was no sense in it for Castiel, he’d done what he’d set out to do when this had all started just days ago. Now, it was time that he went home.

 

Castiel just wishes that he could tell Dean why he’d made this choice, explain all the Michael had done for him and the damage his brother had done to himself in the process. He wishes he could have him understand why he couldn’t leave his brother hurt, in the same way Castiel hardly bring himself to leave Dean, but all he could get out was: “I’m all he’s got.”

 

Dean falls silent then, and Castiel takes the opportunity to begin to heal him. As he prods at the dark, vine like energy that’s wrapped it’s way around the light that seems to make up Dean himself, Castiel can tell that the process will take some time to fully remove. He works diligently within the silence, hand still held within Dean’s and forehead still pressed against the other as their breathing calms to the occasional hiccup.

 

It takes so long that Castiel can feel the shift of light and heat on his face as the sun prepares to rise over head. He can knows that Dean can feels the same even with his eyes closed, as he begins to push through the last bits of the dark energy.

 

“Please, Castiel, we can take him,”Dean pleads, hand clutching Castiel’s, “Please, I don’t- I can’t lose you. _Please._ ”

 

As the last of the darkness fades, Castiel allows himself to open his eyes and talk a last look at his friend. Light is just beginning to bleed into the sky, a red amber haze lighting Dean’s face. There’s still faint scarring that he can see on Dean’s closed eyelids, a line cutting through the centre of right eye and another branching off from the bottom of his left. Despite it he still looks like Dean, beautiful and battle worn, and now desperately trying to keep his eyes closed against facing Castiel, afraid of yet knowing that this was the last time he’d see him.

 

On the edge of his awareness, he can sense other energies in the distance heading towards them. Castiel doesn’t may them any attention. By the time they find them, he and Michael will be long gone, their powers masking their tale from any pursuers. Still, Castiel takes another moment to himself, studying and memorising Dean as he kneels in front of him, fighting back tears. He’s fighting his own back, hand and lips trembling with the force of it.

 

The presence feels closer now, possibly only a few feet away if the growing sound distance rustling was accurate, so Castiel made his last act of rebellion. Clenching his hands to steel his nerve, Castiel leans down and presses his lips to Dean’s. He misses just slightly, landing on the more on the corner of his mouth than the centre, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough, as a shaky gasp pushes past Dean’s lips as he finally opens his eyes and meet Castiel’s.

 

There’s a plea to stay clear in them, desperate and longing and heartbroken but Castiel just presses his lips to Dean’s again, swift and hitting his mark without trouble this time, and in a quiet voice tells the Winchester,“Goodbye Dean.”

There’s the shout of what sounds like a soldier from close by, deep and commanding as it remarks on hearing noise in their direction, paired with an even louder shifting of the bushes and trees closest to them, prompting Castiel to finally shift his focus back to his brother. He turns his head and attention back to where Michael had stood, silently waiting for his brother, preparing a cloaking spell in case they aren’t quick enough in their retreat.

 

But Michael’s gone. No traces of his being close, even as Castiel reaches out for him with his powers.

 

It’s just Castiel and Dean, sat in the heart of the Great Wood, with the men of the King’s Guard bursting through the trees as the sun rises over Easeden and a new day dawns around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Broder - Brother
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](artsiel.tumblr.com)  
> and [here](interncastiel.tumblr.com)  
> And again you can find [Gabi](http://kamicom.tumblr.com)  
> and the art for this fic [here](http://kamicom.tumblr.com/post/167996077347/title-the-lost-prince-author-artsiel-artist)  
> 


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